



















































































































































































































































































































THE MYSTERY STORIES OF 


J. S. FLETCHER 

*‘ Mr. Fletcher is a master of plot, and he never 
goes beyond the bounds of reason in its procedure 
and development. He, moreover, can write the 
English language as a vital means to the end both of 
narrative and discription, and he never fails to show 
that he is its master. It is therefore a pleasure to 
read his stories, not merely for their entertaining 
qualities, but also for the agreeable appeal of their 
manner and their style.” 

Boston Evening Transcript. 


THE CHARING CROSS 


MYSTERY 


HSU 


BY 


J. S. FLETCHER 


AUTHOR OF 

“THE MIDDLE TEMPLE MURDER,” ETC. 



G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 

tIbe ImicKerbocUer press 




Copyright, 1922, 1923 
by 


The Consolidated Magazines Corporation 
(Under the title “ Black Money") 

Copyright, 1923 
by 

J. S. Fletcher 


Published, February 1923 
Reprinted, February 1923 





Made in the United States of America 



»Uv. /€ 


CONTENTS 


v 

i 


r* 

CHAPTER 

I. —The Last Train East 

II. —Whose Portrait is This? 

III. —The Potential Fortune 

IV. —The Diamond Necklace 

V. —The Police Return . 

VI. —Samples of Ink . 

VII. —Black Velvet . 

VIII. —Fligwood's Rents 

IX. —The Medicine Bottle 

X. —The Mysterious Visitor 

XI. —Lady Riversreade 

XII. — Alias Madame Listorelle 

XIII. —Who Was She? . 

XIV. —Is It Blackmail? 

XV.— Revelations 

iii 


PACK 

3 

17 

3 i 

44 

57 

7 i 

84 

98 

110 

122 

137 

15 2 

163 

177 

189 




Mil.,, 






■ * • 
































4 


































































































































*• 


















BLACK MONEY 


CHAPTER I 

THE LAST TRAIN EAST 

J_JETHERWICK had dined that evening with 
friends who lived in Cadogan Gardens, and 
had stayed so late in conversation with his host that 
midnight had come before he left and set out for 
his bachelor chambers in the Temple: it was, indeed, 
by the fraction of a second that he caught the last 
east-bound train at Sloane Square. The train was 
almost destitute of passengers; the car which he 
himself entered, a first-class smoking compartment, 
was otherwise empty: no one came into it when the 
train reached Victoria. But at St. James’s Park two 
men got in, and seated themselves opposite Hether- 
wick. 

Now Hetherwick was a young barrister, going 
in for criminal practice, in whom the observing 
faculty was deeply implanted; it was natural to him 
to watch, and to speculate on anything he saw; be- 


3 


4 Black Money 

cause of this, and perhaps because he had just then 
nothing else to think about, he sat observing the 
newcomers; he found interest, amusement, and not 
a little profit in this sort of thing, and in trying to 
decide whether a given man was this, that, or some¬ 
thing else. 

Of the two men thus under inspection, the elder 
was a big, burly, fresh-coloured man of apparently 
sixty to sixty-five years of age. His closely cropped 
silvery hair, his smartly trained grey moustache, his 
keen blue eyes, and generally alert and vivacious 
appearance, made Hetherwick think that he was or 
had been in some way or other connected with the 
Army: this impression was heightened by an erect 
carriage, square-set shoulders, and something that 
suggested a long and close acquaintance with the 
methods of the drill-yard and the parade-ground. 
Perhaps, thought Hetherwick, he was a retired non¬ 
commissioned officer, a regimental sergeant-major, 
or something of that sort: this idea, again, was 
strengthened by the fact that the man carried a 
handsome walking-cane, the head of which, either 
of gold or of silver-gilt, was fashioned like a crown. 
There was something military, too, about the cut 
of his clothes; he was a smartly dressed man, from 
his silk hat, new and glossy and worn a little rak¬ 
ishly on the right side of his head, to his highly 


The Last Train East 


5 


polished boots. A well-preserved, cheery-looking, 
good-humoured sort of person, this, decided Hether- 
wick, and apparently well satisfied with himself and 
full of the enjoyment of life, and likely, from all 
outward sight, to make old bones. 

The other man came into a different category. 
The difference began with his clothes, which if not 
exactly shabby, were semi-shabby, much worn, ill- 
kept, and badly put on: he was evidently a careless 
man, who scorned a clothes-brush and was also in¬ 
different to the very obvious fact that his linen was 
frayed and dirty. He was a thin, meagre man, of 
not one-half the respectable, well-fed bulk of his 
companion: his sallow-complexioned face was worn, 
and his beard thin and irregular: altogether he 
suggested some degree of poor circumstances. Yet, 
in Hetherwick’s opinion, he was a person of some¬ 
thing beyond ordinary mental capacity; his eyes were 
large and intelligent, his nose was well-shaped, his 
chin square and determined. And his ungloved 
hands were finely moulded and delicate of propor¬ 
tion: the fingers were long, thin, and tapering. 
Hetherwick noticed two facts about those fingers: 
the first, that they were restless; the second, that 
they were much stained, as if the man had recently 
been mixing dyes or using chemicals. And then he 
suddenly observed that the big man’s hands and 


6 Black Money 

fingers were similarly stained—blue and red and yel¬ 
low, in patches. 

These men were talking when they entered the 
compartment; they continued to talk as they settled 
down: Hetherwick could not avoid hearing what 
they said. 

“Queerest experience I’ve ever had in my time!” 
the big man was saying as he dropped into a corner 
seat. “Tell you I knew her the instant I clapped 
eyes on that portrait! After—how many years will 
it be, now? Ten, I think,—yes, ten. Oh, yes!— 
Knew her well enough. When we get to my hotel, 
I’ll show you the portrait—I cut it out and put it 
aside—and you’ll identify it as quick as I did— 
lay you aught you like on it! No mistaking that!’’ 

This was said in a broad North-Country accent, 
in full keeping, thought Hetherwick, with the burly 
frame of the speaker. But the other man replied in 
tones that suggested the born Londoner. 

“I think I shall be able to recognise it,” he said 
softly. “I’ve a very clear recollection of the lady, 
though, to be sure, I only saw her once or twice.” 

“Aye, well, a fine-looking woman—and a beauty! 
—like that’s not soon forgotten,” declared the other. 
“And nowadays the years don’t seem to make much 
difference to a woman’s age. Anyway, I knew her! 
—‘that’s you, my fine madam,’ says I to myself, as 


The Last Train East 


7 


soon as ever I unfolded that paper. But mind you, 
I kept it to myself! Not a word to my grand¬ 
daughter, though she was sitting opposite to me 
when I made the discovery. No—not to anybody! 
—till to-night. Not the sort of thing to blab about 
—that!” 

“Just so,” said the smaller man. “Of course you'd 
remember that I was likely to have some recollection 
of her and of the circumstances. Odd!—very. And 
I suppose the next thing is—what are you going to 
do about it?” 

“Oh, well!” replied the big man. “Of course, 
ten years have elapsed. But as to that, it wouldn't 
matter, you know, if twenty years had slipped by. 
Still-” 

At that point he sank his voice to the least of a 
whisper, bending over to his companion, and Hether- 
wick heard no more. But it seemed to him that 
the little man, although he appeared to be listening 
intently, was, in reality, doing nothing of the sort. 
His long, stained fingers became more restless than 
ever; twice, before the train came to Westminster, 
he pulled out his watch and glanced at it: once, 
after that, Hetherwick caught the nervous hand 
again shaking towards the waistcoat pocket. And 
he got an idea that the man was regarding his big, 
garrulous companion with curiously furtive glances, 


8 Black Money 

as if he were waiting for some vague, yet expected 
thing, and wondering when it would materialise: 
there was a covert watchfulness about him, and 
though he nodded his head from time to time as 
if in assent to what was being whispered to him, 
Hetherwick became convinced that he was either 
abstracted in thought or taking no interest. If eyes 
and fingers were to be taken as indications, the 
man’s thoughts were elsewhere. 

The train pulled up at Westminster; lingered its 
half-minute; moved onward again; the big man, 
still bending down to his companion, went on whis¬ 
pering; now and then, as if he were telling a good 
story or making a clever point, he chuckled. But 
suddenly, and without any warning, he paused, com¬ 
ing to a dead, sharp-cut stop in an apparently easy 
flow of language. He stared wildly around him: 
Hetherwick caught the flash of his eye as it swept 
the compartment, and never forgot the look of 
frightened amazement that he saw in it; it was as 
if the man had been caught, with lightning-like 
swiftness, face to face with some awful thing. His 
left hand shut up, clutching at his breast and throat; 
the other, releasing the gold-headed cane, shot out 
as if to ward off a blow. It dropped like lead at 
his side; the other arm relaxed and fell, limp and 
nerveless, and before Hetherwick could move, the 


The Last Train East 9 

big, burly figure sank back in its comer and the 
eyes closed. 

Hetherwick jumped from his seat, shouting to 
the other man. 

‘‘Your friend!” he cried. “Look!” 

But the other man was looking. He, too, had 
got to his feet, and he was bending down and 
stretching out a hand to the big man’s wrist. He 
muttered something that Hetherwick failed to catch. 

“What do you say?” demanded Hetherwick, im¬ 
patiently. “Good Heavens!—we must do something! 
The man’s—What is it? A seizure?” 

“A seizure!” answered the other. “Yes—that’s 
it—a seizure! He’d had one—slight giddiness— 
just before we got in. A—the train’s stopping, 
though. Charing Cross? I—I know a doctor close 
by.” 

The train was already pulling up. Hetherwick 
flung open the dividing door between his compart¬ 
ment and the next—he had seen the conductor down 
there and he beckoned to him. 

“Quick 1” he called. “Here!—there’s a man ill— 
dying, I think! Come here!” 

The conductor came—slowly. But when he saw 
the man in the corner, he made for the outer door 
and beckoned to men on the platform. A uniformed 
official ran up and got in. 


io Black Money 

“What is it?” he asked. “Gentleman in a fit? 
Who’s with him? Anybody?” 

Hetherwick looked around for the man with the 
stained fingers. But he was already out of the car¬ 
riage and on the platform and making for the stairs 
that led to the exit. He flung back a few words, 
pointing upward at the same time. 

“Doctor!—close by!” he shouted. “Back in five 
minutes!—get him out.” 

But already there was a doctor at hand. Before 
the man with the stained fingers had fairly vanished, 
other men had come in from the adjoining compart¬ 
ments; one pushed his way to the front. 

“I am a medical man,” he said, curtly. “Make 
way, please.” 

The other men stood silently watching while the 
newcomer made a hasty examination of the still 
figure. He turned sharply. 

“This man’s dead!” he said in quick matter-of- 
fact tones. “Is anyone with him?” 

The train officials glanced at Hetherwick. But 
Hetherwick shook his head. 

“I don’t know him!” he answered. “There was 
another man with him—they got in together at St. 
James’s Park. You saw the other man,” he con¬ 
tinued, turning to the conductor. “He jumped out 


The Last Train East 


ii 


as you came in here, and ran up the stairs, saying 
that he was going for some doctor, close by.” 

“I saw him—heard him, too,” assented the con¬ 
ductor. He glanced at the stairs and the exit be¬ 
yond. “But he ain’t come back,” he added. 

“You had better get the man out,” said the doctor. 
“Bring him in to some place on the platform.” 

A station policeman had come up by that time; 
he and the railway men lifted the dead man and 
carried him across the platform to a waiting-room. 
Hetherwick, feeling that he would be wanted, fol¬ 
lowed in the rear, the doctor with him. It struck 
Hetherwick with grim irony that as soon as they 
were off it, the train went on, as if careless and 
indifferent. 

“Good Heavens!” he muttered, more to himself 
than to the man at his side. “That poor fellow was 
alive, and, as far as I could see, in the very best 
of health and spirits, five minutes ago!” 

“No doubt!” observed the doctor, drily. “But 
he’s dead now. What happened?” 

Hetherwick told him, briefly. 

“And the other man’s—gone!” remarked the doc¬ 
tor. ’Um! But I suppose nobody thought of detain¬ 
ing him. Now—if he doesn’t come back—eh?” 

“You don’t suspect foul play?” exclaimed Hether¬ 
wick. 


12 Black Money 

'‘The circumstances are odd,” said his companion. 
“I should say the man just died! Died as suddenly 
as man can die—as if he’d been shot dead or literally 
blown to fragments. That’s from what you tell me, 
you know. And it may be—a case of poisoning. 
Will that other man come back? If not-” 

By that time Hetherwick was beginning to won¬ 
der if the other man would come back. He had not 
come at the end of ten minutes. Nor of fifteen. 
Nor of thirty. But other men had come, hurrying 
into the drab-walled waiting-room and gathering 
about the table on which the dead man had been 
laid. They were mostly officials and police, and 
presently a police-surgeon arrived and with him a 
police-inspector, one Matherfield, who knew Hether¬ 
wick. While the two doctors made another examina¬ 
tion, this man drew Hetherwick aside. Hetherwick 
re-told his story; this time with full details. Mather¬ 
field listened and shook his head. 

“That second man won’t come back!” he said. 
“Gone half-an-hour, now. Do you think he knew 
the man was dead before he cleared out?” 

“I can’t say,” replied Hetherwick. “The whole 
thing was so quick that it was all over before I 
could realise what was happening. I certainly saw 
the other man give the dead man a quick, close 
inspection. Then he literally jumped for the door 


The Last Train East 


13 


—he was out of it and running up the stairs before 
the train had come to a definite stop.” 

“You can describe him, Mr. Hetherwick?” sug¬ 
gested the inspector. 

“Describe him?—Yes. And identify him, too,” 
asserted Hetherwick. “He was a man of certain 
notable features. I should know him again, any¬ 
where.” 

“Well, we’ll have to look for him,” said Mather- 
field. “And now w r e’ll have to take this dead man 
to the mortuary and have a thorough examination, 
and see what he’s got on him. You’d better come, 
Mr. Hetherwick—in fact, I shall want you.” 

Hetherwick went—in the tail of a sombre pro¬ 
cession, himself and the two medical men walking 
together. He had to tell his tale again, to the police- 
surgeon; that functionary, like all the rest who had 
heard the story, shook his head ominously over the 
disappearance of the sallow-faced man. 

“All an excuse, that!” he said. “There’s no doc¬ 
tor close by. You didn’t get any idea—from their 
conversation, I mean—of the dead man’s identity? 
Any name mentioned ?” 

“I heard no name mentioned,” answered Hether¬ 
wick. “They didn’t address each other by name. 
I’ve no idea who the man is.” 

That was what he wanted to know. Somewhere, 


14 Black Money 

of course, this dead man had friends. He had spoken 
of his hotel—there, perhaps, somebody was awaiting 
his coming; somebody to whom the news of his 
death would come as a great shock, perhaps, and 
terrible trouble. And he waited with a feeling that 
was little short of personal anxiety while the police 
searched the dead man’s pockets. 

The various articles which were presently laid out 
on a side-table were many. There was a purse, well 
stocked with money; there was loose money in the 
pockets. There was a handsome gold watch and a 
heavy chain and locket. There was a pocket-book, 
stuffed with letters and papers. And there were all 
the things that a well-provided man carries—a cigar- 
case, a silver match-box, a silver pencil-case, a pen¬ 
knife, and so on: clearly, the dead man had been 
in comfortable circumstances. But the articles of 
value were brushed aside by the inspector: his im¬ 
mediate concern was with the contents of the pocket- 
book, from which he hastened to take out the let¬ 
ters. A second later he turned to Hetherwick and 
the two doctors, nodding his head sidewise at the 
still figure on the table. 

‘This’ll be the name and address,” he said, point¬ 
ing to the envelopes in his hand. “Mr. Robert 
Hannaford, Maher’s Private Hotel, Surrey Street, 
Strand. Several letters, you see, addressed there, 


The Last Train East 


15 


and all of recent date. We’ll have to go there— 
there may be his wife, and people of his, there. 
Wonder who he was?—somebody from the prov¬ 
inces, most likely. Well-” 

He laid down the letters and picked up the watch 
—a fine gold-cased hunter—and released the back. 
Within that was an inscription, engraved in deli¬ 
cate lettering. The inspector let out an excla¬ 
mation : 

“Ah!” he said. “I half suspected that, from his 
appearance. One of ourselves! Look at this— 
Presented to Superintendent Robert Hannaford, on 
his retirement, by the Magistrates of Sellithwaite. 
Sellithwaite, eh?—where’s that now?” 

“Yorkshire,” replied one of the men standing 
close by. “South-West-Riding.” 

Matherfield closed the watch and laid it by. 

“Well,” he remarked, “that’s evidently who he is 
—ex-Superintendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite, 
Yorkshire, stopping at Maker’s Hotel. I’ll have to 
go round there. Mr. Hetherwick, as you were the 
last man to see him alive, I wish you’d go with me? 
—it’s on your way to the Temple.” 

Something closely corresponding to curiosity, not 
morbid, but compelling, made Hetherwick accede to 
this request. Presently he and Matherfield walked 
along the Embankment together, talking of what 



16 Black Money 

had just happened and speculating on the cause of 
Hannaford’s sudden death. 

“We may know the exact reason by noon/’ re¬ 
marked Matherfield. “There’ll be a post-mortem, 
of course. But that other man!—we njay get to 
know something about him here. And I wonder 
who we shall find here? Hope it’s not his wife— 
unpleasant business.’* 

Maker himself opened the door of his small 
private hotel: a quiet, reserved man who looked like 
a retired butler. He was the sort of a man who is 
slow of speech, and he had not replied to Mather- 
field’s guarded enquiry about Mr. Robert Hanna- 
ford when a door in the little hall opened and a girl 
appeared, who, hearing the inspector’s question, im¬ 
mediately came forward as if in answer. 


CHAPTER II 


WHOSE PORTRAIT IS THIS? 

LI ETHERWICK recognised this girl. He had 
seen her only the previous afternoon, in 
Fountain Court, in company with a man whom he 
knew slightly — Kenthwaite, a fellow-barrister. 
Kenthwaite, evidently, was doing the honours— 
showing her round the Temple; Hetherwick, in fact, 
in passing them, had overheard Kenthwaite telling 
his companion something of the history of the old 
houses and courts around them. And the girl had 
attracted him then. She was a pretty girl, tall, slim, 
graceful, and in addition to her undoubted charm 
of face and figure she looked to have more than an 
average share of character and intelligence, and was 
listening to her guide with obvious interest and 
appreciation. Hetherwick had set her down as be¬ 
ing, perhaps, a country cousin of Kenthwaite’s, visit¬ 
ing London, maybe, for the first time. Anyhow, 
in merely passing her and Kenthwaite he had 
noticed her so closely that he now recognised her 
at once; he saw, too, that she recognised him. But 


17 


18 Black Money 

there was another matter more pressing than that— 
and she had gone straight to it. 

“Are these gentlemen asking for my grand¬ 
father?” she enquired, coming still nearer, and glanc¬ 
ing from the hotel proprietor to the two callers. 
“He’s not come in-” 

Hetherwick was glad to hear that the dead man 
was the girl’s grandfather. Certainly it w r as a close 
relationship, but, after all, not so close as it might 
have been. And he was conscious that the inspector 
was relieved, too. 

“We’re asking about Mr. Robert Hannaford,” 
he said. “Is he your grandfather?—ex-Superin- 
tendent Hannaford, of Sellithwaite? Just so— 
well, I’m very sorry to bring bad news about 
him-” 

He broke off, watching the girl keenly, as if he 
wanted to make sure that she would take the news 
quietly. And evidently reassured on that point, he 
suddenly went on, definitely: 

“You’ll understand?” he said. “It’s—well, the 
worst news. The fact is-” 

“Is my grandfather dead?” interrupted the girl. 
“If that’s it, please say so—I shan’t faint, or any¬ 
thing of that sort. But—I want to know!” 

“I’m sorry to say he is dead,” replied Mather- 
field. “He died suddenly in the train at Charing 





Whose Portrait Is This ? 


19 


Cross. A seizure, no doubt. Was he well when 
you saw him last?” 

The girl turned to the hotel proprietor, who was 
standing by, evidently amazed. 

“Never saw a gentleman look better or seem bet¬ 
ter in my life than he did when he went out of that 
door at half-past-six o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Best 
of health and spirits!” 

“My grandfather was quite well,” said the girl, 
quietly. “I never remember his being anything else 
but well—he was a very strong, vigorous man. 
Will you please tell me all about it?” 

Matherfield told all about it, turning now and 
then to Hetherwick for corroboration. In the end 
he put a question. 

“This man that Mr. Hetherwick saw in youi 
grandfather’s company?” he suggested. “Do you 
recognise anyone from that description?” 

“No!—no one,” answered the girl. “But my 
grandfather knew people in London whom I don’t 
know. He has been going about a good deal since 
we came here, three days ago—looking out for a 
house.” 

“Well, we shall have to find that man,” remarked 
Matherfield. “Of course, if you’d recognised the 
description as that of somebody known to you-” 

“No,” she said again. “I know nobody like that. 



20 Black Money 

But now—do you wish me to go with you—to 
him?” 

“It’s not necessary—I wouldn’t, to-night, if I were 
you,” replied Matherfield. “I’ll call again in the 
morning. Meanwhile, leave matters to us and the 
doctors. You’ve friends in London, I suppose?” 

“Yes, we have friends—relations, in fact,” said 
the girl. “I must let them know at once.” 

Matherfield nodded, and turned to the door. But 
Hetherwick lingered. He and the girl were looking 
at each other. He suddenly spoke. 

“I saw you this afternoon,” he said, “in Foun¬ 
tain Court, with a man whom I know slightly. Mr. 
Kenthwaite. Is he, by any chance, one of the rela¬ 
tions you mentioned just now? Because, if so, he 
lives close by me. I can tell him, if you wish.” 

“No,” she answered. “Not a relative. We know 
him. You might tell him, if you please, and if it’s 
no trouble.” 

“No trouble at all,” said Hetherwick. “And—if 
I may—I hope you’ll let me call in the morning to 
hear if there’s anything I can do for you?” 

The girl gave him a quick, responsive glance. 

“That’s very kind of you,” she said. “Yes!” 

Hetherwick and the police-inspector left the little 
hotel and walked up the street. Matherfield seemed 
to be in a brown study. Somewhere up in the 


Whose Portrait Is This? 


21 


Strand and further away down Fleet Street the 
clocks began striking. 

“Seems to me,” exclaimed Matherfield, suddenly, 
“seems to me, Mr. Hetherwick, this is—murder!” 

“You mean poison?” said Hetherwick. 

“Likely! Why, yes, of course, it would be poison. 
We must have that man! You can’t add to your 
description of him?” 

“You’ve already got everything that I can tell. 
Pretty full and accurate, too. I should say you 
oughtn’t to have much difficulty in laying hands on 
him—from my description.” 

Matherfield made a sound that was half a laugh 
and half a groan. 

“Lord bless you!” he said. “It’s like seeking a 
needle in a bundle of hay, searching for a given 
man in London! I mean, of course, sometimes. 
More often than not, in fact. Here’s this chap 
rushes up the stairs at Charing Cross, vanishes— 
where? One man amongst seven millions of men 
and women! However-” 

Then they parted, and Hetherwick, full of thought, 
went home to his chambers, and to bed, and lay 
equally thoughtful for a long time before he went 
to sleep. He made a poor night of it, but soon 
after eight o’clock he was in Kenthwaite’s chambers. 
Kenthwaite was dressing and breakfasting at the 



22 Black Money 

same time—a ready packed brief bag and an open 
time-table suggested that he was in a hurry to catch 
a train. But he suspended his operations to stare, 
open-mouthed, wide-eyed, at Hetherwick’s news. 

“Hannaford!—dead?” he exclaimed. “Great 
Scott!—why, he was as fit as a fiddle at noon yes¬ 
terday, Hetherwick! He and his granddaughter 
called on me, and I took 'em to lunch—I come from 
Sellithwaite, you know, so of course I knew them. 
Hannaford had to go as soon as we’d lunched 
some appointment—so I showed the girl round a 
bit. Nice girl, that—clever. Name of Rhona. 
Worth cultivating. And the old man’s dead! Bless 
me!” 

“I don’t think there’s much doubt about foul 
play,” observed Hetherwick. 

“Looks uncommonly like it,” said Kenthwaite. 
He went on with his double tack. “Well,” he added, 
“sorry, but I can’t be of any use to Miss Hanna¬ 
ford to-day—got to go down to a beastly Quarter 
Sessions case, my boy, and precious little time to 
catch my train. But to-morrow—perhaps you can 
give ’m a hand this morning?” 

“Yes,” answered Hetherwick. “I’m doing noth¬ 
ing. I’ll go round there after a while. I’m inter¬ 
ested, naturally. It’s a queer case.” 

“Queer! Seems so, rather,” assented Kenthwaite. 


Whose Portrait Is This ? 23 


“Well—give Miss Hanna ford my sympathy and all 
that and tell her that if there’s anything I can do 
when I get back—you know what to say.” 

“She said she’d relations here in London?” re¬ 
marked Hetherwick. 

“Cousins — aunts — something or other — over 
Tooting way, I think,” agreed Kenthwaite. “Twenty 
past eight!—Hetherwick, I’ll have to rush for it!” 

He swallowed the last of his coffee, seized his 
bag, and darted away; Hetherwick went back to his 
own chambers and breakfasted, leisurely. And all 
the time he sat there he was pondering over the 
event of the previous midnight, and especially upon 
the sudden disappearance of the man with the 
stained fingers. To Hetherwick that disappearance 
seemed to argue guilt. He figured it in this way— 
the man who ran away at Charing Cross had poi¬ 
soned this other man in some clever and subtle 
fashion, by means of something which took a cer¬ 
tain time to take effect, and, when that time arrived, 
did its work with amazing swiftness. Hetherwick, 
in his war service, had seen men die more times 
than he cared to remember. He had seen some men 
shot through the brain; he had seen others shot 
through the heart. But he had never seen any of 
these men—several of them shot at his very side 
—die with the extraordinary quickness with which 


24 Black Money 

Hannaford had died. And he came to a conclusion: 
If the man with the stained fingers had poisoned 
Hannaford, then he was somebody who had a rare 
and a profound knowledge of poisons. 

He went round to Surrey Street at ten o’clock. 
Miss Hannaford, said the hotel proprietor, had gone 
with her aunt, a Mrs. Keeley, who had come early 
that morning, to see her grandfather’s dead body— 
some police official had fetched them. But she had 
left a message for anyone who called—that she 
would not be long away. And Hetherwick waited 
in the little dingy coffee-room; there were certain 
questions he wanted to put to Rhona Hannaford; 
also, he wanted to give her certain information. 

“Very sad case this, sir,” observed the hotel pro¬ 
prietor, hovering about his breakfast tables. “Cruel 
end for a fine, healthy gentleman like Mr. Hanna¬ 
ford!” 

“Very sad,” agreed Hetherwick. “You said last 
night—or, rather, this morning—that Mr. Hanna¬ 
ford was in good health and spirits when he went 
out early in the evening?” 

“The best, sir! He was a cheery, affable gentle¬ 
man—fond of his joke. Joked and laughed with 
me as I opened the door for him—never thinking, 
sir, as I should never see him again alive!” 

“You don’t know where he was going?” 


Whose Portrait Is This? 25 


“I don’t, sir. And his granddaughter—clever 
young lady, that, sir—she don’t know, neither. She 
went to a theatre, along of her aunt, the lady that 
came early this morning. We wired the bad news to 
her first thing, and she came along at once. But him 
no, I don’t know where he went to spend his even¬ 
ing. Been in and out, and mostly out, ever since 
they were here, three days ago. House-hunting, so 
I understood.” 

Rhona Hanna ford presently returned, in company 
with a motherly-looking woman whom she intro¬ 
duced as her aunt, Mrs. Keeley. Then Hetherwick 
remembered that he had not introduced himself: 
rectifying that omission, he found that Kenthwaite 
had told Rhona who he was when he passed them 
the previous afternoon. He delivered Kenthwaite’s 
message, and in his absence offered his own ser¬ 
vices. 

“It's very good of you,” said Rhona. ‘‘I don’t 
know that there’s anything to do. The police seem 
to be doing everything—the inspector who was here 
last night was very kind just now; but, as he said, 
there’s nothing to be done until after the inquest.” 

“Yes,” said Hetherwick. “And that is—did he 
say when?” 

“To-morrow morning. He said I should have to 
go,” replied Rhona. 


26 Black Money 

“So shall I,” observed Hetherwick. “They’ll only 
want formal evidence from you. I shall have to say 
more. I wish I could say more than I shall have 
to say.” 

The two women glanced at him enquiringly. 

“I mean,” he continued, “that I wish I had 
stopped the other man from leaving the train. I 
suppose you have not heard anything from the police 
about him—that man?” 

“Nothing! They had not found him, or heard 
of him up to just now. But you can tell me some¬ 
thing that I very much want to know. You saw 
this man with my grandfather for some little time, 
didn’t you?” 

“From St. James’s Park to Charing Cross.” 

“Did you overhear their conversation, or any of 
it?” 

“A good deal—at first. Afterwards, your grand¬ 
father began to whisper, and I heard nothing of 
that. But one reason I had for calling upon you 
this morning was that I might tell you what I did 
overhear, and another that I might ask you some 
questions arising out of what I heard. Mr. Hanna- 
ford was talking to this man, now missing, about 
some portrait or photograph. Evidently it was of 
a lady whom he, your grandfather, had known ten 
years ago: whom the other man had also known. 


Whose Portrait Is This? 27 


Your grandfather said that when they got to his 
hotel he would show the portrait to the other man 
who he asserted, would be sure to recognise it. 
Now, had Mr. Hanna ford said anything to you, do 
you know anything about his bringing any friend 
of his to this hotel last night? And do you know 
anything about any portrait or photograph such as 
that to which he referred?” 

“About bringing anyone here—no! He never 
said anything to me about it. But about a photo¬ 
graph, or, rather, about a print of one—yes! I do 
know something about that.” 

“What?” asked Iietherwick, eagerly. 

“Well, this,” she answered. “My grandfather, 
who, as I daresay you know by this time, was for 
a good many years Superintendent of Police at 
Sellithwaite, had a habit of cutting things out of 
newspapers—paragraphs, accounts of criminal trials, 
and so on. He had several boxes full of such cut¬ 
tings. When we were coming to Town the other 
day, I saw him cut a photograph out of some illus¬ 
trated paper he was reading in the train, and put 
it away in his pocket-book—in a pocket-book, I 
ought to say, for he had two or three pocket-books. 
This morning I was looking through various things 
which he had left lying about on his dressing-table 
upstairs, and in one of his pocket-books I found the 


28 Black Money 

photograph which he had cut out in the train. That 
must be the one you mention—it’s of a very hand¬ 
some, distinguished-looking woman.” 

“If I may see it—” suggested Hetherwick. 

Within a couple of minutes he had the cutting in 
his hand—a scrap of paper, neatly snipped out of its 
surrounding letter-press, which was a print of a 
photograph of a woman of apparently thirty-five to 
forty years of age, evidently of high position, and 
certainly, as Rhona Hannaford had remarked, of 
handsome and distinguished features. But it was 
not at the photograph that Hetherwick gazed with 
eyes into which surmise and speculation were begin¬ 
ning to steal, after a mere glance at it, his attention 
fixed itself on some pencilled words on the margin 
at its side: 

Through my hands ten years ago! 

“Is that your grandfather’s writing?” he enquired 
suddenly. 

“Yes, that’s his,” replied Rhona. “He had a 
habit of pencilling notes and comments on his cut¬ 
tings—all sorts of remarks.” 

“He didn’t mention this particular cutting to you 
when he cut it out?” 

‘‘No—he said nothing about it. I saw him cut 
it out, and heard him chuckle as he put it away, 
but he said—nothing.” 


Whose Portrait Is This? 


29 


“You don’t know who this lady is?” 

“Oh, no! You see, there’s no name beneath it. 
I suppose there was, in the paper, but he cut out 
nothing but the picture, and the bit of margin. But 
from what he’s written there, I conclude that this 
is a portrait of some woman who had been in trouble 
with the police at some time or other.” 

“Obvious!” muttered Hetherwick. He sat silently 
inspecting the picture for a minute or two. 

“Look here!” he said suddenly—“I want you to 
let me help in trying to get at the bottom of this— 
naturally, you want to have it cleared up. And to 
begin with, let me have this cutting, and for the 
present don’t tell anyone—I mean the police, or any 
enquirers, that I have it. I’d like to have a talk 
about it to Kenthwaite. You understand?—as I 
was present at your grandfather’s death, I’d like to 
solve the mystery of it. If you’ll leave this to 

“Oh, yes!” replied Rhona. “But—you think 
there has been foul play?—that he didn’t die a 
natural death?—that it wasn’t just heart-failure, 


The door of the little coffee-room was opened, 
and Matherfield looked in. Seeing Hetherwick there, 
he beckoned him into the hall, closing the door again 
as the young barrister joined him. Hetherwick saw 



30 Black Money 

that he was full of news and instantly thought of 
the man with the stained fingers. 

“Well?” he said eagerly, “laid your hands on 
that fellow?” 

“On him?—no!” answered Matherfield. “Not a 
word or sign of him—so far! But the doctors 
have finished their post-mortem. And there’s no 
doubt about their verdict. Poisoned!” 


CHAPTER III 

THE POTENTIAL FORTUNE 

TV 4TATHERFIELD sank his voice to a whisper 
as he spoke the last word. And Hetherwick, 
ready though he was for the news, started when 
he got it—the definiteness of the announcement 
seemed like opening a window upon a vista of 
obscured and misty distances. He glanced at the 
door behind him. 

“Of course, they’ll have to be told, in there,” said 
Matherfield, interpreting his thoughts. “But the 
thing’s certain. Our surgeon suspected it from the 
first, and he got a Home Office specialist to help at 
the autopsy—they say the man was poisoned by 
some drug or other—I don’t understand these things 
—that had been administered to him two or three 
hours before he died, and that when it did work, 
worked with absolutely lightning-like effect.” 

“Yes,” muttered Hetherwick, thoughtfully. 
“Lightning-like effect!—good phrase. I can testify 
that it did that!” 


31 


32 Black Money 

Matherfield laid a hand on the door. 

“Well,” he said. “I’d better tell these ladies. 
Then—there are things I want to know from the 
granddaughter. I’ve seen her—and her aunt—be¬ 
fore this morning. I found out that Hannaford 
brought up and educated this girl, and that she 
lived with him in Sellithwaite after she left school, 
so she’ll know more about him than anybody. And 
I want to learn all I can. Come in with me.” 

Elder and younger woman alike took Mather- 
field’s intimation quietly. Rhona made no remark. 
But Mrs. Keeley spoke impulsively. 

“There never was a more popular man than he 
was—with everybody!” she exclaimed. “Who 
should want to take his life?” 

“That’s just what we’ve got to find out, ma’am!” 
said Matherfield. “And I want to know as much 
as I can—I daresay Miss Hannaford can tell me a 
lot. Now let’s see what we do know from what 
you told me this morning. Mr. Hannaford had 
been Superintendent of Police at Sellithwaite for 
some years. He had recently retired on his pension. 
He proposed to live in London, and you and he, 
Miss Hannaford, came to London to look for a 
suitable house, arrived three days ago, and put up 
at this hotel. That’s all correct? Very good—now 
then, let me hear all about his movements during 


The Potential Fortune 


33 


the last three days. What did he do?—Where did 
he spend his time?’* 

“I can’t tell you much,” answered Rhona. “He 
was out most of the day, and generally by himself. 
I was only out with him twice—once, when we went 
to do some shopping; another time when we called 
on Mr. Kenthwaite at his rooms in the Temple. I 
understood he was looking for a house—seeing 
house-agents, and so on. He was out, morning, 
afternoon, and evening.” 

“Did he never tell you anything about where 
he’d been, or whom he’d seen?” 

“No! He was the sort of man who keeps things 
to himself. I have no idea where he went nor whom 
he saw.” 

“Didn’t say anything about where he was going 
last night?” 

“No. He only said that he was going out, and 
that I should find him here when I got back from 
the theatre to which I was going with Mrs. Keeley. 
We got back here soon after eleven. But he hadn’t 
come in—as you know.” 

“You never heard him speak of having enemies?” 

“I should think he hadn’t an enemy in the world! 
He was a very kind man, and very popular, even 
with the people he had to deal with as a police- 
superintendent.” 


3 


34 Black Money 

“And I suppose he’d no financial worries—any¬ 
thing of that sort? Nor any other troubles—nothing 
to bother him?” 

“I don’t think he’d a care in the world,” said 
Rhona, confidently. “He was looking forward with 
real zest to settling down in London. And as to 
financial worries, he’d none. He was well off.” 

“Always a saving, careful man,” remarked Mrs. 
Keeley. “Oh, yes, quite well off—apart from his 
pension.” 

Matherfield glanced at Hetherwick, who had 
listened carefully to all that was asked and answered: 
something in the glance seemed to invite him to 
take a hand. 

“This occurs to me,” said Hetherwick. He turned 
to Rhona. “Apart from this house-hunting, do you 
know whether your grandfather had any business 
affair in hand in London? What I’m thinking of, 
is this—from what I saw of him in the train, he 
appeared to be an active, energetic man, not the sort 
of man who, because he’d retired, would sit down 
in absolute idleness. Do you know of anything that 
he thought of undertaking ? — any business he 
thought of joining?” 

Rhona considered this question for a while. 

“Not any business,” she replied at last. “But 
there is something that may have to do with what 


The Potential Fortune 


35 


you suggest My grandfather had a hobby. He 
experimented in his spare time.” 

“What in?” asked Hetherwick. Then he sud¬ 
denly remembered the stained fingers that he had 
noticed on the hands of both men the night before. 
“Was it chemicals?” he added quickly. 

“Yes, in chemicals,” she answered with a look of 
surprise. “How did you know that?” 

“I noticed that his hands and fingers were 
stained,” replied Hetherwick. “So were those of 
the man he was with. Well—but this something?” 

“He had a little laboratory in our garden at 
Sellithwaite,” she continued. “He spent all his spare 
time in it—he'd done that for years. Lately, I know 
he’d been trying to invent or discover something— 
I don’t know what. But just before we left Selli¬ 
thwaite, he told me that he’d solved the problem, 
and when he was sorting out and packing up his 
papers he showed me a sealed envelope in which, 
he said, were the particulars of his big discovery—he 
said there was a potential fortune in it and that 
he should die a rich man. I saw him put that 
envelope in a pocket-book which he always carried 
with him.” 

“That would be the pocket-book I examined last 
night,” said Matherfield. “There was no sealed 
envelope, nor one of which any seal had been broken, 


36 Black Money 

in that. There was nothing but letters, receipts, 
and unimportant papers.” 

“It is not in his other pocket-books,” declared 
Rhona. “I went through all his things myself very 
early this morning—through everything that he had 
here. I know that he had that envelope yesterday 
—he pulled out some things from his pocket when 
we were lunching with Mr. Kenthwaite in a restau¬ 
rant in Fleet Street, and I saw the envelope. It was 
a stout, square envelope, across the front of which 
he had drawn two thick red lines, and it was heavily 
sealed with black sealing wax at the back.” 

“That was yesterday, you say?” asked Mather- 
field, sharply. “Yesterday noon? Just so!—then 
as he had it yesterday at noon, and as it wasn’t in 
his pockets last night and is not among his effects 
in this house, it’s very clear that between say two 
o’clock yesterday and midnight he parted with it. 
Now then—to whom? That’s a thing we’ve just 
got to find out! But you’re sure he wasn’t joking 
when he told you that this discovery, or invention, 
or whatever it is, was worth a potential fortune?” 

“On the contrary, he was very serious,” replied 
Rhona. “Unusually serious for him. He wouldn’t 
tell me what it was, nor give me any particulars— 
all he said was that he’d solved a problem and hit 
on a discovery that he’d worked over for years, and 


The Potential Fortune 37 

that the secret was in that envelope and worth no 
end of money. I asked him what he meant by no 
end of money, and he said—Well, at any rate, a 
hundred thousand pounds—in time.” 

The two men exchanged glances: silence fell on 
the whole group. 

“ ’Um!” said Matherfield at last. “A secret worth 
a hundred thousand pounds—in time! This will 
have to be looked into—narrowly. What do you 
think, Mr. Hetherwick?” 

“Yes,” answered Hetherwick. “You’ve no idea, 
of course, as to whether your grandfather had done 
anything about putting this discovery on the mar¬ 
ket?—or made any arrangement about selling it? 
No!—well, can you tell me this? What sort of 
house did your grandfather want to rent here in 
London? I mean—do you know what rent he was 
prepared to pay?” 

“I can answer that,” remarked Mrs. Keeley. “He 
told me he wanted a good house—a real good one, 
in a convenient suburb, and he was willing to go up 
to three hundred a year.” 

“Three hundred a year,” said Hetherwick. He ex¬ 
changed a meaning glance with Matherfield. “That,” 
he added, “looks as if he felt assured of a consid¬ 
erable income, and as though he had already realised 
on his discovery or was very certain of doing so.” 


38 Black Money 

“To be sure!” agreed Matherfield. “Of course, 
I don’t know what his private means were, but I 
know what his retiring pension would be!—and 
three hundred a year for rent alone means—a good 
deal! Um!—we’ll have to endeavour to trace that 
sealed envelope!” 

“It seems to me, Matherfield,” observed Hether- 
wick, “that the first thing to do is to trace Hanna- 
ford’s movements last night, from the time he left 
this hotel until his death in the train.” 

“We’re at that already,” replied Matherfield. 
“We’ve a small army of men at work. But as we 
want all the help we can get, I’m going to stir up 
the newspaper men, Mr. Hetherwick—the press, sir, 
is always valuable in this sort of thing!—and I want 
Miss Hannafora, if she’s got one, to give me a 
recent photograph of her grandfather so that it can 
appear in the papers. Somebody, you know, may 
recognise it—somebody who saw him last night with 
somebody else.” 

Rhona had a new photograph of the dead man, 
taken, in plain clothes, just before he left Selli- 
thwaite, and she gave Matherfield some copies of it. 
Reproductions appeared in the Meteor and other 
evening papers that night, and in some of the dailies 
next morning. And as a result a man came for¬ 
ward at the inquest, a few hours later, who declared 


The Potential Fortune 


39 


with positive assurance that he had seen Hannaford 
early in the evening of the murder. His appearance 
was the only sensational thing about these necessarily 
only preliminary proceedings before the Coroner: 
until he stepped forward nothing had transpired with 
which Hetherwick was not already familiar. There 
had been his own evidence; somewhat to his sur¬ 
prise neither Coroner nor police seemed to pay much 
attention to his account of the conversation about 
the woman’s portrait; they appeared to regard 
Hannafojrd’s observations as a bit of garrulous 
reminiscence about some criminal or other. There 
had been Rhona's—a repetition of what she had told 
Matherfield and Hetherwick at Maher’s Hotel: police 
and Coroner evidently fixed on the missing sealed 
envelope and its mysterious secret as a highly im¬ 
portant factor in the case. Then there had been the 
expert testimony of the two doctors as to the cause 
of death—that had been confined to positive declara¬ 
tions that Hannaford had died from the administra¬ 
tion of some subtle poison, the exact details being 
left over until experts could tell more at the ad¬ 
journed proceedings. And the Coroner was about 
to adjourn for a fortnight when a man who had 
entered the court and been in conversation with the 
officials was put into the witness-box to tell a story 


40 Black Money 

which certainly added information and at the same 
time accentuated mystery. 

This man was a highly-respectable person in ap¬ 
pearance; middle-aged; giving the name of Martin 
Charles Ledbitter, manager of an insurance office in 
Westminster, and resident at Sutton, in Surrey. It 
was his habit, he said, to travel every evening from 
Victoria to Sutton by the 7:20 train. As a rule he 
arrived at Victoria just before seven, and took a cup 
of tea in the refreshment room. He did this on the 
night before last. While he was drinking his tea at 
the counter, an elderly man came in and stood by 
him whom he was sure, beyond doubt, was the same 
man whose photograph was reproduced in some of 
last night’s and some of this morning’s newspapers. 
He had no doubt whatever about this. He first 
noticed the man’s stained fingers as he took up the 
glass of whisky and soda which he had ordered; he 
had, at the time, wondered at the contrast between 
those fingers and the general spick-and-spanness of 
the man and his smart attire; also he had noticed his 
gold-headed walking-cane and that the head was 
fashioned like a crown. They stood side by side for 
some minutes: then the man went out. A minute or 
two later he saw him again—this time at the right- 
hand side bookstall; he was there obviously looking 
out for somebody. 


The Potential Fortune 


41 


This was the point where the interest really began: 
everybody in court strained eyes and ears as the 
Coroner put a direct question. 

“Looking out for somebody? Did you see him 
meet anybody ?” 

“I did!” 

“Tell me what you saw.” 

“I saw this. When I approached the bookstall, to 
buy some evening papers, the man whom I had seen 
in the refreshment room was standing close by. He 
was looking about him, but chiefly at the entrances 
to the big space between the offices and the plat¬ 
forms. Once or twice he looked at his watch. It 
was then—by the station clock—about ten minutes 
past seven. He seemed impatient—he moved rest¬ 
lessly about. I passed him and went to the book¬ 
stall. When I turned round again he was standing a 
few yards away, shaking hands with another man. 
From the way in which they shook hands, I con¬ 
cluded that they were old friends, who, perhaps, 
had not seen each other for some time.” 

“Their greeting was cordial?” 

“I should call it effusive.” 

“Can you describe the other man ?” 

“I can describe a sort of general impression of 
both. He was a tall man, taller than Hannaford, 
but not so broadly built. He wore a dark ulster 


42 Black Money 

overcoat, with a strap at the back: it was either a 
very dark blue or a black in colour. He had a silk 
hat new and glossy: he gave me the impression of 
being a smartly dressed man—smart boots and 
gloves and that sort of thing—you know the general 
impression you get at a quick glance. But as to his 
features I can’t tell you anything!” 

“Why not?” asked the Coroner. 

“Because, to begin with, he wore an unusually 
large pair of blue spectacles, which completely veiled 
his eyes, and to end with, his throat and chin were 
swathed in a heavy white muffler which covered the 
lower part of his face as well. Between the rim of 
his hat and the collar of his coat it was all muffler 
and spectacles!” 

The Coroner looked disappointed. His interest 
in the witness seemed to evaporate. 

“Did you notice anything else?” he asked. 

“Only that the newcomer took Hannaford’s arm, 
and that they walked away towards the left hand 
entrance hall, evidently in earnest conversation. 
That was the last I saw of them.” 

“There’s just one question I should like to put to 
you in conclusion,” said the Coroner. “You say 
that you are confident that the photograph in the 
newspapers is that of the man you saw at Victoria. 
Now, have you seen the dead man’s body?” 


The Potential Fortune 


43 


“I have. The police took me to see it when I 
volunteered my evidence. ,, 

“And you recognised it as that of the man you 
saw?” 

“Without doubt! There is no question of that in 
my mind.” 

Five minutes later, the inquest stood adjourned, 
and those chiefly concerned gathered together in the 
emptying court to discuss the voluntary witness’s 
evidence. Matherfield manifested an almost cheerful 
optimism. 

“This is better!—much better,” he declared, rub¬ 
bing his hands as if in anticipation of laying them 
on something. “We know now that Hanna ford met 
at any rate two men that night. It’s easier to find 
two men than one!” 

Rhona, whom Hetherwick had escorted to the 
Coroner’s court, looked her astonishment. “How 
can that be?” she asked. 

“Mr. Hetherwick understands,” answered Ma¬ 
therfield with a laugh. “He’ll tell you.” 

But Hetherwick said nothing. He was wonder¬ 
ing—always wondering—about the woman whose 
picture lay in his pocket. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE DIAMOND NECKLACE 

IE conviction that there was more than met 



1 the eye in HannaforcTs cutting out and putting 
away the handsome and distinguished woman’s 
photograph grew mightily in Hetherwick’s mind 
during the next few days. He recalled all that 
Hannaford had said about it in the train in those 
few short minutes before his sudden death. Why 
had he been so keen about showing it to the other 
man? Was he taking the other man specially to 
his hotel to show it to him?—at that time of night? 
Why did the recollection which his possession of it 
brought up afford him—obviously—so much in¬ 
terest, and, it seemed, amusement? And what, ex¬ 
actly, was meant by the pencilled words in the 
margin of the cutting ?—Through my hands ten 
years ago! Under what circumstances had this 
woman been through Hannaford’s hands? And 
who was she ? The more he thought of it, the more 
Hetherwick was convinced that there was more im¬ 
portance in this matter than the police attached to 


44 


The Diamond Necklace 


45 


it. They had proved utterly indifferent to Hether- 
wick’s account of the conversation in the train—- 
that, said Matherfield, with official superiority, was 
nothing but a bit of chat, reminiscence, recollection, 
on the ex-superintendent’s part; old men, he said, 
were fond of talking about incidents of the past. 
The only significance Matherfield saw in it was that 
it seemed to argue that whoever the man who had 
disappeared was, he and Hanna ford had known each 
other ten years ago. 

At the end of a week the police had heard nothing 
of this man. Nor had they made any discovery in 
respect of the other man whom Ledbitter swore he 
had seen with Hannaford at Victoria. The best 
Scotland Yard hands had been hard and continu¬ 
ously at work, and had brought nothing to light. 
Only one person had seen the first man after he 
darted up the stairs at Charing Cross calling out that 
he was going for a doctor: this was a policeman on 
duty at the front of the Underground Station. He 
had seen the man run out; had watched him run at 
top speed up Villier’s Street, and had thought no 
more of it than that he was some belated passenger 
hurrying to catch a last ’bus in the Strand. But 
with that all news and trace of him vanished. Of 
the tall man in the big blue spectacles and white 
muffler there never was any trace, nor any news 


46 Black Money 

beyond Ledbitters’s. Yet Ledbitter was a thor¬ 
oughly dependable witness, and there was no doubt 
that he had seen Hannaford in this man’s company. 
So, without question, Hannaford during his last few 
hours of life had been with two men—neither of 
whom could be found. Within twenty-four hours 
of his death several men came forward voluntarily 
who had had dealings or conversation with Hanna¬ 
ford since his arrival in London. But there was 
a significant fact about the news which any of them 
could give—not one knew anything of the tall man 
seen by Ledbitter, or of the shabby man seen by 
Hetherwick, or of the secret which Hannaford 
carried in his sealed packet. The story of that 
sealed packet had been told plentifully in the news¬ 
papers—but nobody came forward who knew any¬ 
thing about it. And when a week had elapsed after 
the ex-superintendent’s burial the whole mystery of 
his undoubted murder seemed likely to become one 
of the many which are never solved. 

But Hetherwick was becoming absorbed in this 
affair into which he had been so curiously thrown 
head-first. He had leisure on his hands; also, he 
was well off in this world’s goods, and much more 
concerned with the psychology of his profession 
than with a desire to earn money by its practice. 
From the moment in which he heard that the doc- 


The Diamond Necklace 47 


tors had found that Hannaford had been poisoned, he 
felt that here was a murder mystery at the bottom 
of which he must get—it fascinated him. And all 
through his speculations and theorising about it, he 
was obsessed by the picture in his pocket. Who was 
that woman ?—and what did the dead man remember 
about her? 

Suddenly, one morning, after a visit from Mather- 
field, who looked in at his chambers casually, to tell 
him that the police had discovered nothing, Hether- 
wick put on his hat and went round to Surrey Street. 
He found Rhona Hannaford busy in preparing to 
leave Maker’s Hotel; she was going to live, for a 
time at any rate, with Mrs. Keeley. Hetherwick 
went straight to the matter that had brought him. 

“That print of a woman’s photograph which your 
grandfather had in his pocket-book,” he said, “and 
that’s now in mine. Out of what paper did he cut 
it?—a newspaper, evidently.” 

“Yes, but I don’t know what paper,” answered 
Rhona. “All I know is that it was a paper which 
he got by post, the morning that we left Sellithwaite. 
We were just leaving for the station when the post 
came. He put his letters and papers—there were 
several things—in his overcoat pocket, and opened 
them in the train. It was somewhere on the way 
to London that he cut out that picture. He threw 


48 


Black Money 

the paper away—with others. He had a habit of 
buying a lot of papers, and used to cut out 
paragraphs.” 

“Well—I suppose it can be traced,” muttered 
Hetherwick, thinking aloud. He glanced at the 
evidences of Rhona’s departure. So you re going 
to live with your Aunt?” he said. 

“For a time—yes,” she answered. 

“I hope you’ll let me call?” suggested Hetherwick. 
“I’m awfully interested in this affair, and I may be 
able to tell you something about it.” 

“We’d be pleased,” she replied. “I’ll give you the 
address. I don’t intend to be idle though—unless 
you call in the evening, you’ll probably find me out.” 

“What are you thinking of doing?” he asked. 

“I think of going in for secretarial work,” she 
answered. “As a matter of fact, I had a training 
for that, in Sellithwaite. Typewriting, correspond¬ 
ence, accounts, French, German—I’m pretty well 
equipped.” 

“Don’t think me inquisitive,” said Hetherwick, 
suddenly. “I hope your grandfather hasn’t for¬ 
gotten you in his will ?—I heard he’d left one.” 

“Thank you,” replied Rhona. “He hasn’t. He 
left me everything. I’ve got about three hundred 
a year—rather more. But that’s no reason why I 
should sit down and do nothing, is it?” 


The Diamond Necklace 49 


“Good!” said Hetherwick. “But—if that sealed 
packet could be found ? What was worth a hundred 
thousand to him, would be worth a hundred thou¬ 
sand to his sole legatee. Worth finding!” 

“I wonder if anything will be found?” she an¬ 
swered. “The whole thing’s a mystery that I’m not 
even on the edge of solving.” 

“Time!” said Hetherwick. “And—patience.” 

He went away presently and strolled round 
to Brick Court, where Kenthwaite had his 
chambers. 

“Doing anything?” he asked, as he walked in. 

“Nothing,” replied Kenthwaite. “Go ahead!” 

Hetherwick sat down and lighted his pipe. 

“You know Sellithwaite, don’t you?” he asked 
when he had got his tobacco well going. “Your 
town, eh?” 

“Bora and bred there and engaged to a girl there,” 
replied Kenthwaite. “Ought to! What about 
Sellithwaite?” 

“Were you there ten years ago?” demanded 
Hetherwick. 

“Ten years ago? No—except in the holidays. I 
was at school ten years ago. Why?” 

“Do you remember any police case at Sellithwaite 
about that time in which a very handsome woman 
was concerned?—probably as defendant?” 


4 


50 Black Money 

“No! But I was more interested in cricket than 
in crime, those days. Are you thinking about the 
woman Hannaford spoke of in the train, to the 
chap they can’t come across?” 

“I am! Seems to me there’s more in that than the 
police think.” 

“Shouldn’t wonder. Let’s see?—Hannaford spoke 
of that woman as—what?” 

“Said she’d been through his hands, ten years 
ago.” 

“Well, that’s easy! If she was through Hanna- 
ford’s hands, as Superintendent of police, ten years 
ago, that would be at Sellithwaite. And there’ll 
be records, particulars, and so on at Sellithwaite.” 

Hetherwick nodded, and smoked in silence for 
a while. 

“Think I shall go down there,” he said at last. 

Kenthwaite stared, wonderingly. 

“Keen as all that!” he exclaimed. 

“Queer business!” said Hetherwick. “Like to 
solve it.” 

“Oh, well, it’s only a four hours’ run from King’s 
Cross,” observed Kenthwaite. ‘“Interesting town, 
too. Old as the hills and modem as they make ’em. 
Excellent hotel—White Bear. And I’ll tell you 
what—my future’s brother is a solicitor there— 
Michael Hollis. I’ll give you a letter of introduction 


The Diamond Necklace 


51 


to him and he’ll show you round and give you any 
help you need.” 

“Good man!” said Hetherwick. “Write it!” 

Kenthwaite sat down and wrote, and handed over 
the result. 

“What do you want to find out, exactly?” he 
asked, as Hetherwick thanked him and rose to 
go. 

“All about that woman, and why Hannaford cut 
her picture out of the paper,” answered Hetherwick. 
“Well—see you when I get back.” 

He went off to his own chambers, packed a bag, 
and drove to King’s Cross to catch the early after¬ 
noon train for the North. At half-past-seven that 
evening he found himself in Sellithwaite, a grey, 
smoke-laden town set in the midst of bleak and 
rugged hills, where the folk, if the railway officials 
were anything to go by, spoke a dialect which, to 
Hetherwick’s Southern ears, sounded like some bar¬ 
baric language. But the “White Bear,” in which he 
was presently installed, yielded all the comforts and 
luxuries of a first-class hotel; the dining-room, into 
which Hetherwick turned as soon as he had booked 
his room seemed to be thronged by a thoroughly 
cosmopolitan crowd of men; he heard most of the 
principal European languages being spoken—later, 
he found that his fellow-guests were principally Con- 


52 Black Money 

tinental business men, buyers, intent on replenishing 
exhausted stocks from the great warehouses and 
manufactories of Sellithwaite. All this was interest¬ 
ing, nor was he destined to spend the remainder of 
his evening in contemplating it from a solitary cor¬ 
ner, for he had scarcely eaten his dinner when a hall- 
porter came to tell him that Mr. Hollis was asking 
for Mr. Hetherwick. 

Hetherwick hastened into the lounge and found 
a keen-faced, friendly-eyed man of forty or there¬ 
abouts stretching out a hand to him. 

“Kenthwaite wired me this afternoon that you 
were coming down, and asked me to look you up 
here/’ he said. “I’d have asked you to dine with 
me, but I’ve been kept at my office until just now, 
and again, I live a good many miles out of town. 
But to-morrow night-” 

“You’re awfully good,” replied Hetherwick. “I’d 
no idea that Kenthwaite was wiring. He gave me 
a letter of introduction to you, but I suppose he 
thought I wanted to lose no time. And I don’t. 
I daresay you can tell me something about the object 
of my visit—let’s find a corner and smoke.” 

Installed in an alcove in the big smoking-room, 
Hollis read Kenthwaite’s letter. 

“What is it you’re after?” he asked. “Kenthwaite 
mentions that my knowledge of Sellithwaite is 



The Diamond Necklace 


53 


deeper than his own—naturally it is, as I’m several 
years older.” 

“Well,” responded Hetherwick. “It’s this, briefly. 
You’re aware, of course, of what befell your late Po¬ 
lice-Superintendent in London—his sudden death?” 

“Oh, yes—read all the newspapers, anyway,” 
assented Hollis. “You’re the man who was present 
in the train on the underground, aren’t you?” 

“I am. And that’s one reason why I’m keen on 
solving the mystery. There’s no doubt whatever 
that Hannaford was poisoned—that it’s a case of 
deliberate murder. Now, there’s a feature of the 
case to which the police don’t seem to attach any 
importance. I do attach great importance to it. It’s 
the matter of the woman to whom Hannaford re¬ 
ferred when he was talking—in my presence—to 
the man who so mysteriously disappeared. Hanna¬ 
ford spoke of that woman as having been through 
his hands ten years ago. That would be some ex¬ 
perience he had here, in this town. Now then, do 
you know anything about it?—does it arouse any 
recollection ?” 

Hollis, who was smoking a cigar, thoughtfully 
tapped its long ash against the edge of his coffee- 
cup. Suddenly his eyes brightened. 

“That’s probably the Whittingham case,” he said. 
“It was about ten years ago.” 


54 Black Money 

“And what was the Whittingham case?” asked 
Hetherwick. “Case of a woman?” 

“Of a woman—evidently an adventuress—who 
came to Sellithwaite about ten years ago, and stayed 
here some little time, in this very hotel,” replied 
Hollis. “Oddly enough, I never saw her! But she 
was heard of enough—eventually. She came here, 
to the White Bear, alone, with plenty of luggage 
and evident funds. I understand she was a very 
handsome woman, twenty-eight or thirty years of 
age, and she was taken for somebody of conse¬ 
quence. I rather think she described herself as the 
Honourable Mrs. Whittingham. She paid her bills 
here with unfailing punctuality every Saturday 
morning. She spent a good deal of money amongst 
the leading tradesmen in the town, and always paid 
cash. In short, she established her credit very suc¬ 
cessfully. And with nobody more so than the princi¬ 
pal jeweller here—Malladale. She bought a lot of 
jewellery from Malladale—but in his case, she 
always paid by cheque. And in the end it was 
through a deal with Malladale that she got into 
trouble.” 

“And into Hannaford’s hands!” suggested 
Hetherwick. 

“Into Hannaford’s hands, certainly,” assented 
Hollis. “It was this way. She had, as I said just 


The Diamond Necklace 55 


now, made a lot of purchases from Malladale, who, 
I may tell you, has a first-class trade amongst our 
rich commercial magnates in this neighbourhood. 
Her transactions with him, however, were never, at 
first, in amounts exceeding a hundred or two. But 
they went through all right. She used to pay him 
by cheque drawn on a Manchester bank—Man¬ 
chester, you know, is only thirty-five miles away. 
As her first cheques were always met, Malladale 
never bothered about making any enquiry about her 
financial stability'; like everybody else he was very 
much impressed by her. Well, in the end, she’d a big 
deal with Malladale. Malladale had a very fine dia¬ 
mond necklace in stock. He and she used to discuss 
her acquisition of it; according to his story they had 
a fine old battle as to terms. Eventually, they struck 
a bargain—he let her have it for three thousand nine 
hundred pounds. She gave him a cheque for that 
amount there and then, and he let her carry off the 
necklace.” 

“Oh!” exclaimed Hetherwick. 

“Just so!” agreed Hollis. “But—he did. How¬ 
ever, for some reason or other, Malladale had that 
cheque specially cleared. She handed it to him on 
a Monday afternoon; first thing on Wednesday 
morning Malladale found that it had been returned 
with the ominous reference to drawer inscribed on 


5 6 Black Money 

its surface! Naturally, he hurried round to the 
White Bear. But the Honourable Mrs. Whitting- 
ham had disappeared. She had paid up her account, 
taken her belongings, and left the hotel, and the town 
late on Monday evening, and all that could be dis¬ 
covered at the station was that she* had travelled 
by the last train to Leeds, where, of course, there 
are several big main lines to all parts of England. 
And she had left no address: she had, indeed, told 
the people here that she should be back before long, 
and that if any letters came they were to keep them 
until her return. So then Malladale went to the 
police, and Hanna ford got busy.” 

“I gather that he traced her?” suggested Hether- 
wick. 

Hollis laughed sardonically. 

“Hannaford traced her—and he got her!” he 
answered. “But he might well use the expression 
that you mentioned just now. She was indeed 
through his hands—just as a particularly slippery 
eel might have been! She got clear away from him.” 


CHAPTER V 


v 

THE POIJCE RETURN 

I TETHERWICK now began to arrive at some- 
1 1 thing like an understanding of a matter that 
had puzzled him ever since and also at the time of 
the conversation between Hannaford and his com¬ 
panion in the train. Pie had noted then that whatever 
it was that Hannaford was telling, he was telling it 
as a man tells a story against himself: there had been 
signs of amused chagrin and discomfiture in his 
manner. Now he saw why. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed. “She was one too many 
for him. Then?” 

“A good many times too many!” laughed Hollis. 
“She did Hannaford completely. He strove hard 
to find her, and did a great deal of the spade-work 
himself. And at last he ran her down—in a 
fashionable hotel in London. He had a Scotland 
Yard man with him, and a detective from our own 
police-office here, a man named Gandham, who is 
still in the force—I’ll introduce you to him to¬ 
morrow. Hannaford finding that Mrs. Whitting- 
57 


58 Black Money 

ham had a suite of rooms in this hotel—a big West 
End place—left his two men downstairs, or outside, 
and went up to see her alone. According to his own 
account, she was highly indignant at any suspicion 
being cast upon her, and still more so, to a pitch of 
most virtuous indignation when he told her that 
he’d got a warrant for her arrest and that she’d 
have to go with him. During a brief interchange 
of remarks she declared that if her bankers at Man¬ 
chester had returned her cheque unpaid it must 
have been merely because they hadn’t realised cer¬ 
tain valuable securities which she’d sent to* them, 
and that if Malladale had presented his cheque a few 
days later it would have been all right. Now, that 
was all bosh!—Hannaford of course had been in 
communication with the bankers; all they knew of 
the lady was that she had opened an account with 
them while staying at some hotel in Manchester, 
and that she had drawn all but a few pounds of her 
balance the very day on which she had got the neck¬ 
lace from Malladale and fled with it from Selli- 
thwaite. Naturally, Hannaford didn’t tell her this 
—he merely reiterated his demand that she should 
go with him. She assented at once, only stipulating 
that there should be no fuss—she would walk out 
of the hotel with him, and his satellites could 
come back and search her belongings at their leisure. 


The Police Return 


59 


Then Hannaford—who, between you and me, 
Hetherwick, had an eye for a pretty woman!—made 
his mistake. Her bedroom opened out of the sitting- 
room in which he'd had his interview with her; he 
was fool enough to let her go into it alone to get 
ready to go with him. She went—and that was the 
very last Hannaford ever saw of her!” 

“Made a lightning exit, eh?” remarked Hether¬ 
wick. 

“She must have gone instantly,” asserted Hollis. 
“A door opened from the bedroom into a corridor— 
she must have picked up a hat and coat and walked 
straight away, leaving everything she had there. 
Anyway, when Hannaford, tired of waiting, knocked 
at the door and looked in, his bird was flown. Then, 
of course, there was a hue-and-cry, and a fine reve¬ 
lation. But she’d got clear away, probably by some 
side-door, or other exit, and although Hannaford, 
according to his own account, raked London with a 
comb for her, she was never found. Vanished!” 

“And the necklace?” enquired Hetherwick. 

“That had vanished too,” replied Hollis. “They 
searched her trunks and things, but they found 
nothing but clothing. Whatever she had in the 
way of money and valuables, she’d carried off. And 
so Hannaford came home, considerably down in 
the mouth, and he had to stand a good deal of chaff. 


60 Black Money 

And if he found this woman’s picture in a recent 
paper—well, small wonder that he did cut it out! 
I should say he was probably going to set Scotland 
Yard on her track!—for of course there’s no time¬ 
limit to criminal proceedings.” 

“This is the picture he cut out,” observed Hether- 
wick, producing it from his pocket-book. “But you 
say you never saw the woman?” 

“No, I never saw her,” assented Hollis, examining 
the print with interested curiosity. “So, of course, 
I can’t recognise this. Handsome woman! But you 
meet me at my office—close by—tomorrow morn¬ 
ing, at ten, and I’ll take you to our police-station. 
Gandham will know!” 

Gandham, an elderly man with a sphinx-like man¬ 
ner and watchful eyes, laughed sardonically when 
Hollis explained Hetherwick’s business. He laughed 
again when Hetherwick showed him the print. 

“Oh, aye, that’s the lady!” he exclaimed. “Not 
changed much, neither! Egad, she was a smart ’un, 
that, Mr. Hollis!—I often laugh when I think how 
she did Hannaford! But you know, Hannaford 
was a soft-hearted man. At these little affairs, he 
was always for sparing people’s feelings. All very 
well—but he had to pay for trying to spare her’s! 
Aye, that’s her!—We have a portrait of her here, 
you know.” 


The Police Return 


61 


“You have, eh,” exclaimed Hetherwick. “I should 
like to see it.” 

“You can see it with pleasure, sir,” replied the 
detective. “And look at it as long as you like.” 
He turned to a desk close by and produced a big 
album, full of portraits with written particulars be¬ 
neath them. “This is not, strictly speaking, a police 
photo,” he continued. “It’s not one that we took 
ourselves, ye understand—we never had the chance! 
No!—but when my lady was staying there at the 
White Bear, she had her portrait taken by Wintring, 
the photographer, in Silver Street, and Wintring 
was that suited with it that he put it in his window. 
So, of course, when her ladyship popped off with 
Malladale’s necklace, we got one of those por¬ 
traits, and added it to our little collection. Here 
it is!—and you’ll not notice so much differ¬ 
ence between it and that you’ve got in your hand, 
sir.” 

There was very little difference between the two 
photographs and Hetherwick said so. And pres¬ 
ently he went away from the police-office wondering 
more than ever about the woman with whose past 
adventures he was concerning himself. 

“May as well do the thing thoroughly while you’re 
about it,” remarked Hollis, as they walked off. 
Come and see Malladale—his shop is only round the 


62 Black Money 

corner. Not that he can tell you much more than 
I’ve told you already.” 

But Malladale proved himself able to tell a great 
deal more. A grave, elderly man, presiding over 
an establishment which Hetherwick, unaccustomed 
to the opulence of provincial manufacturing towns, 
was astonished to find outside London, he ushered 
his visitors into a private room, and listened with 
interest to the reasons they gave for calling on him. 
After a close and careful inspection of the print 
which Hetherwick put before him, he handed it 
back with a confident nod. 

“There is no doubt whatever—in my mind—that 
that is a print from a photograph of the woman I 
knew as the Honourable Mrs. Whittingham,” he 
said. “And if it has been taken recently, she has 
altered very little during the ten years that have 
elapsed since she was here in this town.” 

“You’d be glad to see her again, Mr. Malladale— 
in the flesh?” laughed Hollis. 

The jeweller shook his head. 

“I think not,” he answered. “No, I think not, 
Mr. Hollis. That’s an episode which I put out of 
mind—until you recalled it.” 

“But—your loss?” suggested Hollis. “Close on 
four thousand pounds, wasn’t it?” 

Mr. Malladale raised one of his white hands to 


The Police Return 


63 


his grey beard and coughed. It was a cough that 
suggested discretion, confidence, secrecy. He smiled 
behind his moustache, and his spectacled eyes seemed 
to twinkle. 

“I think I may venture a little disclosure—in the 
company of two gentlemen learned in the law,” he 
said. “To a solicitor whom I know very well, and 
to a barrister introduced by him, I think I may re¬ 
veal a little secret—between ourselves and to go no 
further. The fact of this matter is, gentlemen— 
I had no loss!” 

“What?” exclaimed Hollis. “No—loss?” 

“Eventually,” replied the jeweller. “Eventually! 
Indeed to tell you the plain truth, I made my profit, 
and—er, something over.” 

Hollis looked his bewilderment. 

“Do you mean that—eventually—you were paid?” 
he asked. 

“Precisely! Eventually—after a considerable 
interval—I was paid,” replied Mr. Malladale. “I 
will tell you the circumstances. It is, I believe, com¬ 
mon knowledge that I sold the diamond necklace 
to Mrs. Whittingham for three thousand nine 
hundred pounds, and that the cheque she gave me 
was dishonoured, and that she cleared off with the 
goods and was never heard of after she escaped 
from Hannaford. Well, two years ago, that is to 


64 Black Money 

say, eight years after her disappearance, I one day 
received a letter which bore the New York post¬ 
mark. It contained a sheet of note-paper on which 
were a few words and a few figures. But I have 
that now, and I’ll show it to you.” 

Going to a safe in the corner of his parlour, the 
jeweller, after some searching, produced a paper and 
laid it before his visitors. Hetherwick examined it 
with curiosity. There was no name, no address, no 
date: all that appeared was, as Malladale had re¬ 
marked, a few words, a few figures, typewritten: 

“Principal.£3,900 

“8 years’ Interest @5% . . . 1,560 

£5,460 

“Draft £5,460 enclosed herein: kindly acknowl¬ 
edge in London Times.” 

“Enclosed, as is there said, was a draft on a Lon¬ 
don bank for the specified amount,” continued Mr. 
Malladale. “£5,460! You may easily believe that 
at first I could scarcely understand this: I knew of 
no one in New York who owed me money. But 
the first figures—£3,900—threw light on the matter 
—I suddenly remembered Mrs. Whittingham and 
my lost necklace. Then I saw through the thing_ 




The Police Return 


65 


evidently Mrs. Whittingham had become prosperous, 
wealthy, and she was honest enough to make amends: 
there was my principal, and eight years’ interest on 
it. Yet, I felt somewhat doubtful about taking it 
—I didn’t know whether I mightn’t be compounding 
a felony. You gentlemen, of course, will appreciate 
my little difficulty ?” 

“Urn!” remarked Hollis in a non-committal tone. 
“The more interesting matter is—what did you do. 
Though I think we already know,” he added with 
a smile. 

“Well, I went to see Hannaford, and told him 
what I had received,” answered the jeweller. “And 
Hannaford said precisely what I expected him to 
say. He said, ‘Put your money in your pocket, 
Malladale, and say nothing about it!’ So— I did!” 

“Each of you feeling pretty certain that Mrs. 
Whittingham was not likely to show her face in 
Sellithwaite again, no doubt!” observed Hollis. 
“Very interesting, Mr. Malladale. But it strikes me 
that whether she ever comes to Sellithwaite again 
or not, Mrs. Whittingham, or whatever her name 
may be nowadays, is in England.” 

“You think so?” asked the jeweller. 

“Her picture’s recently appeared in an English 
paper, anyway,” said Hollis. 

“But pictures of famous American ladies appear 


66 Black Money 

in English newspapers,” suggested Mr. Malladale. 
“I have recollections of several. Now my notion is 
that Mrs. Whittingham, who was a very hand¬ 
some and very charming woman, eventually went 
across the Atlantic and married an American million¬ 
aire! That’s how I figured it. And I have often 
wondered who she is now.” 

“That’s precisely what I want to find out,” said 
Hetherwick. “One thing is certain—Hannaford 
knew! If he’d been alive he could have told us. 
Because in whatever paper it was that this print 
appeared there would be some letterpress about it, 
giving the name, and why it appeared at all.” 

“You can trace that,” remarked Hollis. 

“Just so,” agreed Hetherwick, “and I may as 
well get back to town and begin the job. But I think 
with Mr. Hollis,” he added, turning to the jeweller. 
“I believe that the woman is here in England: I 
think it possible, too, that Hannaford knew where. 
And I don’t think it impossible that between the 
time of his cutting out her picture from the paper 
and the time of his sudden death he came in touch 
with her.” 

“You think it probable that she, in some way, had 
something to with his murder—if it was murder?” 
asked Mr. Malladale. 

“I think it possible,” replied Hetherwick. “There 


The Police Return 


67 


are strange features in the case. One of the 
strangest is this. Why, when Hannaford cut out 
that picture for his own purposes, evidently with no 
intention of showing it to anyone else, did he cut 
it out without the name and letterpress which must 
have been under and over it?” 

“Queer, certainly!” said Hollis. “But you know, 
you can soon ascertain what that name was. All 
you’ve got to do is to get another copy of the paper.” 

“Unfortunately, Hanna ford’s granddaughter 
doesn’t know what particular paper it was,” replied 
Hetherwick. “Her sole recollection of it is that 
it was some local newspaper, sent to Hannaford by 
post, the very morning that he left here for London.” 

“Still—it can be traced,” said Hollis. “It was in 
some paper—and there’ll be other copies.” 

Presently he and Hetherwick left the jeweller’s 
shop. Outside, Hollis led his companion across the 
street, and turned into a narrow alley. 

“I’ll show you a man who’ll remember Mrs. 
Whittingham better than anybody in Sellithwaite,” 
he said, with a laugh. “Better even than Malladale. 
I told you she stayed at the White Bear when she 
was here? Well, since then the entire staff of that 
eminent hostelry has changed from the manager to 
the boots—I don’t think there’s a man or woman 
there who was there ten years ago. But there’s a 


68 Black Money 

man at the end of this passage who was formerly 
hall-porter at the White Bear—Amblet Hudson— 
and who now keeps a rather cosy little saloon-bar 
down here: we’ll drop in on him. He’s what we 
call a bit of a character, and if you can get him to 
talk, he’s usually worth listening to.” 

He led the way further along the alley, between 
high, black, windowless walls, and suddenly turning 
into a little court, paused before a door set deep in 
the side of an old half-timbered house. 

“Queer old place, this!” he remarked over his 
shoulder. “But you’ll get a glass of as good port 
or sherry from this chap as you’d get anywhere in 
England—he knows his customers! Come in.” 

He led the way into a place the like of which 
Hetherwick had never seen—a snug, cosy room, 
panelled and raftered in old oak, with a bright fire 
burning in an open hearth and the flicker of its 
flames dancing on the old brass and pewter that 
ornamented the walls. There was a small bar- 
counter on one side of it; and behind this, in his 
shirt-sleeves and with a cigar protruding from the 
corner of a pair of clean-shaven humorous lips 
stood a keen-eyed man, busily engaged in polishing 
wine-glasses. 

“Good-morning, gentlemen!” he said heartily. 
“Nice morning, Mr. Hollis, for the time o’ year. 


The Police Return 69 

And what can I do for you and your friend, 
sir?” 

Hollis glanced round the room—empty, save for 
themselves. He drew a stool to the bar and 
motioned Hetherwick to follow his example. 

“I think we'll try your very excellent dry sherry, 
Hudson,” he answered. “That is, if it’s good as 
it was last time I tasted it.” 

“Always up to standard, Mr. Hollis, always up 
to standard, sir!” replied the barkeeper. “No inferior 
qualities, no substitutes, and no trading on past 
reputation in this establishment, gentlemen! As 
good a glass of dry sherry here, sir, as you’d get 
where sherry wine comes from—and you can’t say 
that of most places in England, I think. Every¬ 
thing’s of the best here, Mr. Hollis—as you know!” 

Hollis responded with a little light chaff; suddenly 
he bent across the bar. 

“Hudson!” he said, confidentially. “My friend 
here has something he’d like to show you. Now, 
then,” he continued, as Hetherwick in response to 
this had produced the picture—“do you recognise 
that?” 

The barkeeper put on a pair of spectacles and 
turned the picture to the light, examining it closely. 
His lips tightened: then relaxed in a cynical smile. 

“Aye!” he said, half carelessly. “It’s the woman 


70 Black Money 

that did old Malladale out of that diamond necklace. 
Of course!—Mistress Whittingham!” 

“Would you know her again, if you met her— 
now?” asked Hollis. 

The barkeeper picked up one of his glasses and 
began a vigorous polishing. 

“Aye!” he answered, laconically. “And I should 
know her by something else than her face!” 


CHAPTER VI 


SAMPLES OF INK 

J UST then two men came in, and Hudson broke 
off to attend to their wants. But presently they 
carried their glasses away to a snug corner near the 
fire, and the barkeeper once more turned to Hollis 
and Hetherwick. 

“Aye!” he said, confidentially. “If need were, 
I could tell that party by something else than her 
face, handsome as that is! I used to tell Hanna ford 
when he was busy trying to find her that if he’d any 
difficulty about making certain, I could identify her 
if nobody else could! You see, I saw a deal of her 
when she was stopping at the White Bear. And I 
knew something that nobody else knew.” 

“What is it?” asked Hetherwick. 

Hudson leaned closer across the counter and 
lowered his voice. 

“She was a big, handsome woman, this Mrs. 
Whittingham,” he continued. “Very showy, dressy 
woman, fond of fine clothes and jewellery, and so on: 
sort of woman, you know, that would attract atten- 
71 


72 Black Money 

tion anywhere. And one of these women, too, that 
was evidently used to being waited on hand and 
foot—she took her money’s worth out of the White 
Bear, I can tell you! I did a deal for her, one way 
or another, and I’ll say this for her, she was free 
enough with her money. If it so happened that she 
wanted things doing for her, she kept you fairly 
on the go till they were done, but she threw five 
shilling pieces and half-crowns about as if they were 
farthings!—she’d send you to take a sixpenny tele¬ 
gram and give you a couple of shillings for taking 
it. Well, now, as I say, I saw a deal of her, one 
way and another, getting cabs for her, and taking 
tilings up to her room, and doing this, that, and 
t’other. And it was with going up there one day 
sudden-like with a telegram that had just come, that 
I found out something about her—something that, 
as I say, I could have told her by anywhere, even if 
she could have changed her face and put a wig on!” 

“Aye—and what now?” asked Hollis. 

“This!” answered Hudson with a knowing look. 
“Maybe I’m a noticing sort of chap—anyhow, there 
was a thing I always noticed about Mrs. Whitting- 
ham. Wherever she was, and no matter how she was 
dressed, whether it was in her going out things or 
her dinner finery, she always wore a band of black 
velvet round her right forearm, just above the wrist, 


73 


Samples of Ink 

where women wear bracelets. In fact, it was a 
sort of bracelet, a strip, as I say, of black velvet, 
happen about two inches wide, and on the front a 
cameo ornament, the size of a shilling, white stone 
or something of that sort, with one of these heathen 
figures carved on it. There were other folk about 
the place noticed that black velvet band, too—I tell 
you she never was seen without it; the chamber¬ 
maids said she slept with it on. But on the occasion 
I’m telling you about, when I went up to her room 
with a telegram, I caught her without it. She 
opened her door to see who knocked—she was in a 
dressing gown, going to change for dinner, I 
reckon, and she held out her right hand for what I’d 
brought her. The black velvet band wasn’t on it, 
and for just a second, like, I saw what was on her 
arm!” 

“Yes?” said Hollis. “Something—remarkable?” 

“For a lady—aye!” replied Hudson, with a grim 
laugh. “Her arm was tattooed! Right round the 
place where she always wore this black velvet band, 
there was a snake, red and green, and yellow, and 
blue, with its tail in its mouth!—wonderfully done, 
too; it had been no novice that had done that bit of 
work, I can tell you! Of course, I just saw it, and 
no more, but there was a strong electric light close 
by, and I did see it, and saw it plain and all. And 


74 Black Money 

that's a thing that that woman, whoever she may 
be, ami wherever she's got to, can never rub off, nor 
scrub off!—she’ll carry that to the day of her death." 

The two listeners looked at each other. 

“Odd!" remarked Hollis. 

Hetherwick turned to the barkeeper. 

“Did she notice that you saw that her arm was 
tattooed?" he asked. 

“Nay, I don’t think she did," replied Hudson. 
“Of course, the thing was over in a second. I made 
no sign that I'd seen aught particular, and she said 
nought. But—I saw!" 

Just then, other customers came in, and the bar¬ 
keeper turned away to attend to their wants. Hollis 
and Hetherwick moved from the counter to one of 
the snug corners at the further end of the room. 

“Whoever she may be, wherever she may be—as 
Hudson said just now," remarked Hollis, “and if 
this woman really had anything to do with the 
mysterious circumstances of Hannaford’s death, she 
ought not to be difficult to find. A woman who 
carries an indefaceable mark like that on her arm, 
and whose picture had recently appeared in a news¬ 
paper should easily be traced." 

“I think I shall get at her through the picture," 
agreed Hetherwick. “The newspaper reproduction 
seems to have been done from a photograph which, 


75 


Samples of Ink 

from its clearness and finish, was probably taken by 
some first-class firm in London. I shall go round 
such firms as soon as I get back. It may be, of 
course, that she’s nothing whatever to do with 
Hannaford’s murder, but still, it’s a trail that’s got 
to be followed to the end, now that one’s started 
out on it. Well 1—that seems to finish my business 
here—as far as she’s concerned. But there’s another 
matter—I told you that when Hannaford came to 
town, he had on him a sealed packet containing the 
secret of some invention or discovery, and that it’s 
strangely and unaccountably missing? His grand¬ 
daughter says that he worked this thing out—what¬ 
ever it is—in a laboratory that he had in his garden. 
Now then, before I go, I want to see that laboratory. 
As he’s only recently left the place, I suppose things 
will still be pretty much as he left them at his old 
house. Where did he live?” 

“He lived on the outskirts of the town,” replied 
Hollis. “An old-fashioned house that he bought 
some years ago—I know it by sight well enough, 
though I’ve never been in it. I don’t suppose it’s 
let yet, though I know it’s being advertised in the 
local papers. Let’s get some lunch at the White 
Bear, and then we’ll drive up there and see what we 
can do. You want to get an idea of what it was 
that Hannafof$1 had invented?” 


76 Black Money 

“Just so,” assented Hetherwick. “If the secret 
was worth all that he told his granddaughter it 
was, he may have been murdered by somebody 
who wanted to get sole possession of it. Any¬ 
way, it’s another trail that’s got to be worked 
on.” 

“I never heard of Hannaford as an inventor or 
experimenter,” remarked Hollis. “But there, I 
knew little about him except in his official capacity: 
he and his granddaughter, and an elderly woman 
they kept as a working housekeeper were quiet sort 
of folk. I knew that he brought up his grand¬ 
daughter from infancy, and gave her a rattling good 
education at the Girls’ High School, but beyond that 
I know little of their private affairs I suppose he 
amused himself in this laboratory you speak of in 
his spare time?” 

“Dabbled in chemistry, I understand,” said 
Hetherwick. “And, if it hasn’t been dismantled, 
we may find something in that laboratory that will 
give us a clue of some sort.” 

Hollis seemed to reflect for a minute or two. 

“I’ve an idea!” he said suddenly. “There’s a man 
who lunches at the White Bear every day—a man 
named Collison; he’s analytical chemist to a big 
firm of dyers in the town. I’ve seen him in conver¬ 
sation with Hannaford now and then. Perhaps he 


77 


Samples of Ink 

could tell us something on this point. Come on!— 
this is just about his time for lunch.” 

A few minutes later, in the coffee-room of the 
hotel, Hollis led Hetherwick up to a bearded and 
spectacled man who had just sat down to lunch, 
and having introduced him, briefly detailed the ob¬ 
ject of his visit to Sellithwaite. Collison nodded 
and smiled. 

“I understand,” he said, as they seated themselves 
at his table. “Hannaford did dabble a bit in chemis¬ 
try—in quite an amateur way. But as to inventing 
anything that was worth all that—come! Still, he 
was an ingenious man, for an amateur, and he may 
have hit on something fairly valuable.” 

“You've no idea what he was after?” suggested 
Hetherwick. 

“Of late, no! But some time ago, he was im¬ 
mensely interested in aniline dyes,” replied Collison. 
“He used to talk to me about them. That's a sub¬ 
ject of infinite importance in this district. Of course, 
as I daresay you know, the Germans have been 
vastly ahead of us as regards aniline dyes, and we've 
got most, if not all, of the stuff used, from Germany. 
Hannaford used to worry himself as to why we 
couldn’t make our own aniline dyes, and I believe 
he experimented. But, with his resources, as an 
amateur, of course that was hopeless.” 


78 Black Money 

“I’ve sometimes seen him talking to you,” ob¬ 
served Hollis. “You’ve no idea what he was after, 
of late?” 

“No—he used to ask me technical questions,” 
answered Collison. “You know, I just regarded 
him as a man who had a natural taste for experi¬ 
menting with things. This was evidently his hobby. 
I used to chaff him about it. Still, he was a purpose¬ 
ful man, and by reading and experimenting he’d 
picked up a lot of knowledge.” 

“And, I suppose, it’s within the bounds of possi¬ 
bility that he had hit on something of practical 
value?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Oh, quite within such bounds!—and he may 
have done,” agreed Collison. “I’ve known of much 
greater amateurs suddenly discovering something. 
The question then is—do they know enough to turn 
their discovery to any practical purpose and ac¬ 
count?” 

“Evidently, from what he told his granddaughter, 
Hannaford did think he knew enough,” said Hether¬ 
wick. “What I want to find out from a visit to 
his old laboratory is—what had he discovered?” 

“And as you’re not a chemist, nor even a dabbler,” 
remarked Hollis, with a laugh, “that won’t be easy! 
You’d better come with us, after lunch, Collison.” 

“I can give you a couple of hours,” assented 


79 


Samples of Ink 

Collison. “I’m already curious—especially if any 
discovery we can make tends to throw light on the 
mystery of Hannaford’s death. Pity the police 
haven’t got hold of the man who was with him,” he 
added, glancing at Hetherwick. “I suppose you 
could identify him?” 

“Unless he’s an absolute adept at disguising him¬ 
self, yes—positively!” replied Hetherwick. “He was 
a noticeable man.” 

An hour later, the three men drove up to a house 
which stood a little way out of the town, on the 
edge of the moorland that stretched towards the 
great range of hills on the west. The house, an old- 
fashioned, solitary place, was empty, save for a care¬ 
taker who had been installed in its back rooms to 
keep it aired and to show it to possible tenants: the 
laboratory, a stone-walled, timber-roofed shed at 
the end of the garden, had never been opened, said 
the caretaker, since Mr. Hannaford locked it up 
and left it. But the key was speedily forthcoming, 
and the three visitors entered and looked around, 
each with different valuings of what he saw. 

The whole place was a wilderness of litter and 
untidiness: whatever Hannaford had possessed in 
the way of laboratory plant and appliances had been 
removed, and now there was little but rubbish— 
glass, whole and broken, paper, derelict boxes and 


So Black Money 

crates, odds and ends of wreckage—to look at. But 
the analytical chemist glanced about with a knowing 
eye, examining bottles and boxes, picking up a thing 
here and another there, and before long he turned 
to his companions with a laugh, pointing at the same 
time to a table in a comer which was covered with 
jars and dust-lined pots. 

“It’s very easy to see what Hannaford was after!” 
he said. “He’s been trying to evolve a new ink!’’ 

“Ink!” exclaimed Hollis, incredulously. “Aren’t 
there plenty of inks on the market?” 

“No end!” agreed Collison, with another laugh, 
and again pointing to the table. “These are speci¬ 
mens of all the better known ones—British, of 
course, for no really decent ink is made elsewhere. 
But even the very best ink, up to now, isn’t perfect 
—Hannaford perhaps thought, being an amateur, 
that he could make a better than the known best. 
Ink!—that’s what he’s been after. A superior, per¬ 
fectly fluid, penetrating, permanent, non-corrosive 
writing ink!—that’s been his notion, a thousand to 
one! I observe the presence of lots of stuffs that 
he’s used.” 

He showed them various things, explaining their 
properties, and adding some remarks on the history 
of the manufacture of writing inks during the last 
hundred years. 


Samples of Ink 81 

“Taking it altogether,” he concluded, “and in 
spite of manufacturer’s advertisements and boasting, 
there isn’t a really absolutely perfect writing fluid 
on the market—that I know of, anyway. If Hanna- 
ford thought he could make one, and succeeded— 
well, I’d be glad to have his formula! Money in it!” 

“To the extent of a hundred thousand pounds?” 
asked Hetherwick, remembering what Rhona had 
told him. “All that?” 

“Oh, well!” laughed Collison. “You must re¬ 
member that inventors are always very sanguine; 
always apt to see everything through rose-coloured 
spectacles; invariably prone to exaggerate the merits 
of their inventions. But if Hannaford, by experi¬ 
ment, really hit on a first-class formula for making 
a writing-ink superior in all the necessary qualities 
to its rivals—yes, there’d be a pot of money in it. 
No doubt of that!” 

“I suppose he’d have to take out a patent for his 
inventions?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Oh, to be sure! I should think that was one of 
his reasons for going to London—to see after it,” 
assented Collison. He looked round again, and 
again laughed. “Well,” he said, “I think you know 
now—you may be confident about it from what I’ve 
seen here—what Hannaford was after? Ink— 
just ink!” 


82 Black Money 

Hetherwick accepted this judgment, and when he 
left Sellithwaite later in the afternoon on his return 
journey to London, he summed up the results of his 
visit. They were two. First—he had discovered 
that the woman of whom Hannaford had spoken in 
the train was a person who ten years before had been 
known as Mrs. Whittingham, appeared to be some 
sort of an adventuress, and, in spite of her restitu¬ 
tion to the jeweller whom she had defrauded was 
still liable to arrest, conviction, and punishment—if 
she could be found. Second—he had found out that 
the precious invention of which Hannaford had 
spoken so confidently and enthusiastically to his 
granddaughter and the particulars of which had 
mysteriously disappeared, related to the manufacture 
of a new writing-ink, which might, in truth, prove 
a very valuable commercial asset. So far, so good— 
he was finding things out. As he ate his dinner in 
the restaurant car he considered his next steps. But 
it needed little consideration to resolve on them. 
He must find out all about the woman whose picture 
lay in his pocket-book—what she now called herself; 
where she was; how her photograph came to be 
reproduced in a newspaper, and, last but far from 
least, if Hannaford, after seeing the reproduction, 
had got into touch with her, or given information 
about her. To the man in the train Hannaford had 


83 


Samples of Ink 

remarked that he had said nothing about her until 
that evening—yes, but was that man the only man 
to whom he had spoken? So much for that—and 
the next thing was to find out somehow what had 
become of the sealed packet which Hannaford un¬ 
doubtedly had on him when he went out of Maker’s 
Hotel on the night of his death. 

Next morning, and before calling on either Kenth- 
waite or Rhona Hannaford, Hetherwick set out on 
a tour of the fashionable photographers in the West 
End of London. After all, there were not so many of 
them, not so many, at any rate, of the very famous 
ones. He made a hit, and began to work method¬ 
ically. His first few coverts were drawn blank, but 
just before noon, and as he was thinking of knock¬ 
ing off for lunch, he started his fox. In a palatial 
establishment in Bond Street, the person to whom 
he applied, showing his picture, gave an immediate 
smile of recognition. 

“You want to know who is the original of this?” 
he said. “Certainly! Lady Riversreade, of Rivers- 
reade Court, near Dorking.” 


CHAPTER VII 


BLACK VELVET 


IT ETHERWICK had no deep acquaintance with 
Debrett, nor with Burke, nor even with the list 
of peers, baronets, and knights given in the ordinary 
reference books, and to him the name of Lady 
Riversreade was absolutely unknown—he had never 
heard of her. But the man to whom he had shown 
the print and who now held it in his hand, seemed to 
consider that Lady Riversreade was or should be 
as well known to everybody as she evidently was to 
him. 

“This print is from one oi our photographs of 
Lady Riversreade” he said, turning to a side table 
in the reception room in which they were standing 
and picking up a framed portrait. “This one.” 

“Then you probably know in what newspaper this 
print appeared?” suggested Hetherwick. “That’s 
really what I’m desirous of finding out.” 

“Oh, it appeared in several!” answered the photo¬ 
grapher. “Recently. It was about the time that 

Lady Riversreade opened some home or institute_ 

84 


Black Velvet 


85 . 

I forget what. There was an account of it in the 
papers, and naturally her portrait was reproduced.” 

Hetherwick made a plausible pre-arranged excuse 
for his curiosity and went away. Lady Riversreade! 
—evidently some woman of rank, or means, or 
position. But was she identical with the Mrs. 
Whittingham of ten years ago?—the Mrs. Whit- 
tingham who did the Sellithwaite jeweller out of a 
necklace worth nearly four thousand pounds and 
cleverly escaped arrest at the hands of Hannaford? 
And if so. . . . 

But that led to indefinite vistas: the main thing 
at present was to find out all that could be found out 
about Lady Riversreade, of Riversreade Court, 
near Dorking. Hetherwick could doubtless have 
obtained considerable information from the fashion¬ 
able photographer, but he had carefully refrained 
from showing too much inquisitiveness. Moreover, 
he knew a man, one Boxley, a fellow club-member, 
who was always fully posted up in all the doings 
of the social and fashionable world and could, if 
he would, tell him everything about Lady Rivers¬ 
reade—that was, if there was anything to tell about 
her. Boxley was one of those bachelor men about 
town who went everywhere, knew everybody, and 
kept himself fully informed; he invariably lunched 
at this particular club, the junior Melatharium, and 


86 Black Money 

thither Hetherwick presently proceeded, bent on 
finding him. 

He was fortunate in running Boxley to earth 
almost as soon as he entered the sacred and ex¬ 
clusive portals. Boxley was lunching, and there was 
no one else at his table: Hetherwick joined him 
and began the usual small talk about nothing in 
particular. But he soon came to his one point. 

“Look here!” he said, at a convenient interval. 
“I want to ask you something. You know every¬ 
body and everything. Who is Lady Riversreade, 
who’s recently opened some home or institution, or 
hospital or something?” 

“One of the richest women in England!” replied 
Boxley, promptly. “Worth a couple of millions or 
so. That’s who she is—who she was, I don’t know. 
Don’t suppose anybody else does, either. In this 
country, anyway.” 

“What, is she a foreigner, then?” asked Hether¬ 
wick. “I’ve seen her portrait in the papers—that’s 
why I asked you who she is. Doesn’t look foreign, 
I think.” 

“I can tell you all that is known about her,” said 
Boxley. “And that’s not much. She’s the widow 
of old Sir John Riversreade, the famous contractor 
—the man who made a pot of money building rail¬ 
ways, and dams across big rivers, and that sort of 


Black Velvet 


87 


thing, and got a knighthood for it. He also built 
himself a magnificent place near Dorking, and called 
it Riversreade Court—just the type of place a 
modern millionaire would build. Now old Sir John 
had been a bachelor all his life, until he was over 
sixty—no time for anything but his contracts, you 
know. But when he was about sixty-five, which 
would be some six or seven years ago, he went over 
to the United States and made a rather lengthy stay 
there. And when he returned he brought a wife 
with him—the lady you’re enquiring about.” 

“American, then?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Well, he married her over there, certainly,” said 
Boxley. “But I should say she isn’t American.” 

“You’ve met her—personally?” 

“Just! Run across her once or twice at various 
affairs, and been introduced to her, quite casually. 
No, I don’t think she’s American. If I wanted to 
label her, I should say she was cosmopolitan.” 

“Woman of the world, eh?” 

“Decidedly so! Handsome woman—self-pos¬ 
sessed—self-assured—smart, clever. I think she’ll 
know how to take care of the money her husband 
left her.” 

“Leave her everything?” 

“Every penny!—except some inconsiderable lega¬ 
cies to charitable institutions. It was said at the 


88 Black Money- 

time—it’s two years since the old chap died—that 
she’s got over two millions.” 

“And this institution or whatever it is?” 

“Oh, that! That was in the papers, not so long 
since.” 

“I’m no great reader of newspapers. What about 
it?” 

“Oh, she’s started a home for wounded officers, 
near Riversreade Court. There was some big 
country house near there, empty—couldn’t readily 
be sold or let. She bought it, renovated it, fitted it 
up, stuck a staff of nurses and servants in, and got 
it blessed by the War Office. Jolly nice place, I 
believe, and she pays the piper.” 

“Doing the benevolent business, eh?” 

“So it appears—easy game, too, when you’ve got 
a couple of millions behind you! Useful, though!” 

Boxley went away soon after that, and Hether- 
wick, wondering about what he had learned, and 
now infinitely inquisitive about the identity of Lady 
Riversreade with Mrs. Whittingham, went into the 
smoking-room, and more from habit than because 
he really wanted to see it, picked up a copy of the 
Times . Almost the first thing on which his glance 
lighted was the name that was just then in his 
thoughts—there it was, in capitals, at the head of an 
advertisement: 


Black Velvet 


89 


“LADY RIVERSREADE’S HOME FOR 
WOUNDED OFFICERS, SURREY—Required 
at once, a Resident Lady-Secretary, fully com¬ 
petent to undertake accounts and correspondence 
and thoroughly trained in shorthand and type¬ 
writing: a knowledge of French and German 
would be a high recommendation. Application 
should be made personally any day this week be¬ 
tween 10 and 12, and 3 and 5 to Lady Riversreade, 
Riversreade Court, Dorking.” 

Hetherwick threw the paper aside, left the club, 
and at the first news agent’s he came to bought an¬ 
other copy. With this in his hand he jumped into a 
taxicab and set off for Surrey Street, wondering if 
he would find Rhona Hannaford still at Maker’s 
Hotel. He was fortunate in that: she had not yet 
left, and in a few minutes he was giving her a full 
and detailed account of his doings since his last 
interview with her. She listened to his story about 
Sellithwaite and his discoveries of that morning 
with a slightly puzzled look. 

“Why are you taking all this trouble?” she asked, 
suddenly and abruptly. “You’re doing more, going 
into things more, than the police are! Matherfield 
was here this morning, to tell me, he said, how they 
were getting on. They aren’t getting on at all!— 
they haven’t made one single discovery: they’ve 
heard nothing, found out nothing, about the man in 


9 o Black Money 

the train, or the man at Victoria—they’re just where 
they were. But you!—you’ve found out a lot 1 Why 
are you so energetic about it ? 

“Put it down to professional inquisitiveness, if 
you like,” answered Hetherwick, smiling. I m 
interested. Tremendously! You see—I, too, was 
there in the train, like the man they haven t found. 
Well, now—now that I’ve got to this point I’ve 
arrived at, I want you to take a hand. 

“I? In what way?” exclaimed Rhona. 

Hetherwick pulled out the Times and pointed to 
the advertisement. 

“I want you to go down to Dorking to-morrow 
morning and personally interview Lady Riversreade 
in response to that,” he said. “You’ve all the qualifi¬ 
cations she specifies, so you’ve an excellent excuse 
for calling on her. Whether you’d care to take the 
post is another matter—what I want is that you 
should see her under conditions that will enable you 
to observe her closely.” 

“Why?” asked Rhona. 

“I want you to see if she wears such a band as 
that which Hudson told Hollis and myself about,” 
replied Hetherwick. “Sharp eyes like yours will 
soon see that! And—if she does, then, she’s Mrs. 
Wbittingham! In that case, I might ask you to do 
more—still more.” 


Black Velvet 


9i 


“What, for instance ?” she enquired. 

“Well, to do your best to get this post,” he 
answered. “I think that you, with your qualifica¬ 
tions, could get it.” 

“And—your object in that?” she asked. 

“To keep an eye on Lady Riversreade,” he replied 
promptly. “If the Mrs. Whittingham of ten years 
ago at Sellithwaite is the same woman as the Lady 
Riversreade of Riversreade Court of to-day, then, 
in view of your grandfather’s murder, I want to 
know a lot more about her! To have you—there!— 
would be an immense help.” 

“I’m to be a sort of spy, eh?” said Rhona. 

“Detective, if you like,” assented Hetherwick. 
“Why not?” 

“You forget this,” she remarked. “If this Lady 
Riversreade is identical with the Mrs. Whittingham 
of ten years ago, she’d remember my name—Han- 
naford! She’s not likely to have forgotten Superin¬ 
tendent Hannaford of Sellithwaite!” 

“Exactly—but I’ve thought of that little matter,” 
replied Hetherwick. “Call yourself by some other 
name. Your mother’s, for instance.” 

“That was Featherstone,” said Rhona. 

- “There you are! Go as Miss Featherstone. As 
for your address, give your Aunt’s address at Toot- 


92 Black Money 

ing. Easy enough, you see,” laughed Hetherwick. 
“Once you begin it, properly.” 

“There’s another thing, though,” she objected. 
“References—she’ll want those.” 

“Just as easy,” answered Hetherwick. “Give me 
as one, and Kenthwaite as the other. I’ll speak to 
him about it. Two barristers of the Middle Temple! 
—excellent! Come!—all you’ve got to do is to work 
the scheme out fully and carry it out with assurance! 
And you don’t know what we might discover.” 

Rhona considered matters awhile, watching him 
steadily. 

“You think that—somehow—this woman may be 
at the back of the mystery surrounding my grand¬ 
father’s murder?” she suddenly asked. 

“I think it’s quite within the bounds of proba¬ 
bility,” he answered. 

“All right!” she said abruptly. “I’ll go! To-mor¬ 
row morning, I suppose?” 

“Sooner the better,” agreed Hetherwick. “And 
look here, I’ll go down with you. We’ll go by the 
10:10 from Victoria, drive to this place, and I’ll 
wait outside while you have your interview. After 
that we’ll get some lunch in Dorking—and you can 
tell me your news.” 

Next morning found Hetherwick pacing the plat¬ 
form at Victoria and on the lookout for his fellow- 


Black Velvet 


93 


companion. She came to him a little before the 
train was due to leave, and he noticed at once that 
she had discarded the mourning garments in which 
he had found her the previous afternoon: she now 
appeared in a smart, tailor-made coat and skirt and 
looked the part he wanted her to assume—that of 
a capable and self-reliant young business woman. 

“Good!” he said, approvingly, as they went to 
find seats. “Nothing like dressing up to it. You’re 
all ready with your lines, eh ?—I mean you’ve settled 
on all you’re going to say and do?” 

“Leave that to me!” she answered with a laugh. 
“I sha’n’t forget the primary object, anyway. But 
I’ve been wondering—supposing we come to the 
conclusion that this Lady Riversreade is the Mrs. 
Whittingham of ten years ago—What are you 
going to do then ?” 

“My ideas are hazy on that point—at present,” 
confessed Hetherwick. “The first thing, surely, is 
to establish identity. Don’t forget that the main 
thing to do at Riversreade Court is to get a good 
look at Lady Riversreade’s right wrist, and see 
what’s on it!” 

Riversreade Court proved to be some distance 
from Dorking, in the Leith Hill district; Hether¬ 
wick chartered a taxi-cab, and gave his companion 
final instructions as they rode out. Half-an-hour’s 


94 Black Money 

run brought them to the house—a big, pretentious 
imitation Elizabethan structure, set on the hillside 
amongst a grove of firs and pines, and having an 
ornamental park laid out between its gardens and 
terraces and the high road. At the lodge gates he 
stopped the driver and got out. 

“I’ll wait here for you,” he said to Rhona. “You 
ride up to the home, get your business done, and 
come back here. Be watchful, now—of anything!” 

Rhona nodded reassuringly and went off: 
Hetherwick lighted his pipe and strolled about, 
admiring the scenery. But his thoughts were with 
Rhona: he was wondering what adventures she was 
having in the big mansion which the late contractor 
had built amidst the woods. And Rhona kept him 
wondering some time; an hour had elapsed before 
the cab came back. With a hand on its door, he 
turned to the driver. 

“Go to the White Horse, now,” he said. “We’ll 
lunch there, and afterwards you can take us to the 
station. Well?” he continued as he got in and 
seated himself at Rhona’s side. “What luck?” 

“Good, I should say,” answered Rhona. “She 
wears a broad black velvet band on her right wrist 
and on the outer face is a small cameo. How’s that ?” 

“Precisely!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Just what 
that barkeeper chap at Sellithwaite described. 


Black Velvet 


95 


“Wears it openly?—makes no attempt at con¬ 
cealment, beneath her sleeve, eh?” 

“None!” answered Rhona. “She was wearing a 
smart, fashionable, short-sleeved jumper. She’d a 
very fine diamond bracelet on the other wrist.” 

“And she herself?” asked Hetherwick. “What 
sort of woman is she?” 

“That’s a very good photograph of her that my 
grandfather cut out of the paper,” replied Rhona. 
“Very good indeed!—I knew her at once. She’s a 
tall, fine, handsome, well-preserved woman, perhaps 
forty, perhaps less. Very easy, accustomed manner, 
a regular woman of the world, I should think. 
Quite ready to talk about herself and her doings— 
she told me the whole history of this Home she’s 
started, and took me to see it—it’s a fine old house, 
much more attractive than the Court, a little way 
along the hillside. She told me that it was her great 
hobby, and that she’s devoting all her time to it—I 
should say that she’s genuinely interested in its 
welfare—genuinely!” 

“She impressed you?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“I think, from what I saw and heard, that she’s 
a good-natured, probably warm-hearted woman. 
She spoke very feelingly of the patients she’s got in 
her Home, anyhow.” 

“And the post—the secretaryship?” 


96 Black Money 

“I can have it, if I want it—of course, I told her I 
did. She examined me pretty closely about my 
qualifications—she herself speaks French and Ger¬ 
man like a native—and I mentioned you and Mr. 
Kenthwaite as references. She’s going to write to 
you both to-day. So—it’s for you to decide.” 

“I suppose it’s really for you!” 

“No!—I’m willing, eager, indeed, to do anything 
to clear up the mystery about my grandfather’s 
murder. But—I don’t think this woman had any¬ 
thing to do with it. In my opinion—and I suppose 
I’ve got some feminine intuition—she’s honest and 
straightforward enough.” 

“And yet it looks as if she were certainly the Mrs. 
Whittingham who did a Sellithwaite jeweller to the 
tune of four thousand pounds!” laughed Hether- 
wick. “That wasn’t very honest or straight¬ 
forward !” 

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Rhona. 
“Perhaps, after all, she really thought the cheque 
would be met, and anyway, she did send the man 
his money, even though it was a long time after¬ 
wards. And again—an important matter!—Lady 
Riversreade may not be Mrs. Whittingham at all. 
More women than one wear wristlets of velvet.” 

“But—the portrait!” exclaimed Hetherwick. 
“The positive identity!” 


Black Velvet 


97 


“Well,” answered Rhona. “I’m willing to go there 
and to try to find out more. But frankly I think 
Lady Riversreade’s all right! First impression, 
anyhow!” 

The cab drew up at the White Horse, and Hether- 
wick led Rhona into the coffee-room. But they had 
hardly taken their seats when the manager came in. 

“Does your name happen to be Hetherwick, sir?” 
he enquired. “Just so—thank you. A Mr. Map- 
perley has twice rung you up here during the last 
hour—he's on the ’phone again now if you’ll speak 
to him.” 

“I’ll come,” said Hetherwick. “That’s my clerk,” 
he murmured to Rhona as he rose. “I told him to 
ring me up here between twelve and three if neces¬ 
sary. Back in a minute.” 

But he was away several minutes, and when he 
came to her again, his face was grave. “Here’s a 
new development!” he said, bending across the table 
and whispering. “The police have found the man 
who was with your grandfather in the train! Mather- 
field wants me to identify him. And you’ll gather 
from that that they’ve found him dead! We must 
lunch quickly and catch the two-twenty-four.” 


CHAPTER VIII 
fligwood’s rents 


H ETHERWICK went to the hotel telephone 
again before he had finished his lunch and as a 
result Matherfield was on the platform at Victoria 
when the two-twenty-four ran in. He showed no 
surprise at seeing Hetherwick and Rhona together; 
his manifest concern was to get Hetherwick to him¬ 
self and away from the station. And Hetherwick see¬ 
ing this said good-bye to Rhona with a whispered 
word that he would look in at Maher’s Hotel before 
evening; a few minutes later he and Matherfield were 
in a taxi-cab together, hastening along Buckingham 
Palace Road. 

“Well?” enquired Hetherwick. “This man?” 

“I don’t think there’s any doubt about his being 
the man you saw with Hannaford,” replied Mather¬ 
field. ‘‘He answers to your description, anyway. 
But I’ll tell you how we came across his track. Last 
night a man named Appleyard came to me—he’s a 
chap who has a chemist’s shop in Horseferry Road, 
Westminster: a middle-aged, quiet sort of man who 
98 


99 


Fligwood’s Rents 

prefaced his remarks by telling us that he very rarely 
had time to read newspapers or he’d have been round 
to see us before. But yesterday he happened to pick 
up a copy of one of last Sunday’s papers, and he read 
an account of the Hannaford affair. Then he 
remembered something that seemed to him to have 
a possible connection with it. Some little time ago 
he advertised for an assistant—a qualified assistant. 
He’d two or three applications which weren’t exactly 
satisfactory. Then, one morning—he couldn’t give 
any exact date, but from various things he told us 
I reckoned up that it must have been on the very 
evening on which Hannaford met his death—a man 
came and made a personal application. Appleyard 
described him—medium-sized, a spare man, sallow- 
complexioned, thin face and beard, large dark eyes, 
very intelligent, superior manner, poorly dressed, 
and evidently in low water-” 

“That’s the man, I’ll be bound!” exclaimed 
Hetherwick. “Did he give this chemist his name?” 

“He did—name and address,” answered Mather- 
field. “He said his name was James Granett, and his 
address Number Eight, Fligwood’s Rents, Gray’s 
Inn Road—Holborn end. He told Appleyard that 
he was a qualified chemist, and produced his proofs 
and some references. He also said that though he’d 
never had a business of his own he’d been employed, 



ioo Black Money 

as, indeed, the references showed, by some good 
provincial firms at one time or another. Lately, he d 
been in the employ of a firm of manufacturing 
chemists in East Ham—for some reason or other 
their trade had fallen off, and they’d had to reduce 
their staff, and he’d been thrown out of work, and 
had had the further bad luck to be seriously ill. 
This, he said, had exhausted his small means, and he 
was very anxious to get another job—so anxious 
that he appealed to come to Appleyard on very low 
terms. Appleyard told him he’d enquire into the 
references and write to him in a day or two. He 
did enquire, found the references quite satisfactory, 
and wrote to Granett engaging him. But Granett 
never turned up, and Appleyard heard no more of 
him until he read this Sunday paper. Then he felt 
sure Granett was the man, and came to me.” 

“I shouldn’t think there’s any doubt in the case,” 
remarked Hetherwick. “But before we go any 
further, a question. Did Appleyard say what time 
it was when this man came to him that evening?” 

“He did. It was just as he was closing his shop 
—nine o’clock. Granett stopped talking with him 
about half-an-hour. Indeed, Appleyard told me 
more. After they’d finished their talk, Appleyard, 
who doesn’t live at the shop, locked it up, and he 
then invited Granett to step across the street with 


Fligwood’s Rents ioi 

him and have a drink before going home. They had 
a drink together in a neighbouring saloon-bar, and 
chatted a bit there; it would be nearly ten o’clock, 
according to Appleyard, when Granett left him. 
And he remembered that Granett, on leaving him, 
went round the corner into Victoria Street, on his 
way, no doubt, to the Underground.” 

“And in Victoria Street, equally without doubt, he 
met Hannaford,” muttered Hetherwick. “Well, 
and the rest of it?” 

“Well, of course, as soon as I learnt all this, 1 
determined to go myself to Fligwood’s Rents,” 
replied Matherfield. “I went, first thing this morn¬ 
ing. Fligwood’s Rents is a slum street—only a man 
who is very low down in the world would ever 
dream of renting a room there. It’s a sort of alley 
or court on the right hand side of Gray’s Inn Road, 
going up—some half-dozen squalid houses on each 
side, let off in tenements. Number Eight was a 
particularly squalid house!—slatternly women and 
squalling brats about the door and general dirt and 
shabbiness all round. None of the women about the 
place knew the name of Granett, but after I’d de¬ 
scribed the man I wanted they argued that it must be 
the gentleman on the top-back: they added the 
further information that they hadn’t seen him for 
some days. I went up a filthy stair to the room they 


102 


Black Money 

indicated: the door was locked and I couldn’t get 
any response to my repeated knockings. So then I 
set out to discover the landlord and eventually un¬ 
earthed a beery individual in a neighbouring low- 
class tavern. I got out of him that he had a lodger 
named Granett, who paid him six shillings a week 
for this top-back room, and he suddenly remembered 
that Granett hadn’t paid his last week’s rent. That 
made more impression on him than anything I said, 
and he went with me to the house. And to cut 
things short we forced the door, and found the man 
dead in his bed!” 

“Dead!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Dead—then?” 

“Dead then—yes, and he’d been dead several days, 
according to the doctors,” replied Matherfield, 
grimly. “Dead enough! It was a poor room, but 
clean——you could see from various little things that 
the man had been used to a better condition. But 
as regards himself—he’d evidently gone to bed in 
the usual way. His clothes were all carefully folded 
and arranged, and by the side of the bed there was 
a chair on which was a half-burnt candle and an even¬ 
ing newspaper.” 

“That would fix the date,” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Of course it did—and it was the same date as 
that on which Hannaford died,” answered Mather¬ 
field. “I’ve made a careful note of that circumstance! 


Fligwood’s Rents 103 

Everything looked as if the man had gone to bed in 
just his ordinary way, read the paper a bit, blown 
out his light, dropped off to sleep, and died in his 
sleep.” 

“Yes!—and from what cause, I wonder?” ex¬ 
claimed Hetherwick. 

“Precisely!—the same idea occurred to me, know¬ 
ing what I did about Hannaford,” said Mather- 
held. “However, the doctors will tell us more about 
that. But to wind up—I had a man of mine with 
me; I left him in charge while I got further help, 
and sent for Appleyard. Appleyard identified the 
dead man at once as the man who had been to see 
him. Indeed, on opening the door we found Apple- 
yard’s letter, engaging him, lying with one or two 
others, just inside. So that’s about all, except that 
I now want to know if you can positively identify 
him as the man you saw with Hannaford, and that 
I also want to open a locked box that we found in 
the room, which may contain something that will 
give us further information. Altogether, it’s a step 
forward.” 

“Yes,” admitted Hetherwick. “It’s something. 
But there’s spade-work to be done yet, Matherfield. 
I don’t think there’s any doubt, now, that Granett 
encountered Hannaford after he left Appleyard—and 
that indicates that Granett and Hannaford were old 


104 


Black Money 


acquaintances. But, supposing they met at, or soon 
after, ten o’clock—where did they go, where did 
they spend their time, between that and the time they 
entered my compartment at St. James’s Park?” 

“That would be—what?” asked Matherfield. 

“It was well after midnight—mine was the last 
train going east, anyway,” said Hetherwick. “I only 
just caught it at Sloane Square. But we can 
ascertain the exact time, to a minute. Still, those 
two, meeting accidentally, as I conclude they did, 
must have been together two or three hours. 
Where?— : at that time of night. Surely, there must 
be some way of finding that out! Two men, each 
rather noticeable—somebody must have seen them 
together, somewhere! It seems impossible that they 
shouldn’t have been seen.” 

“Aye, but in my experience, Mr. Hetherwick, it’s 
the impossible that happens!” rejoined Matherfield. 
“In a beehive like this, where every man’s intent on 
his own business, ninety-nine men out of a hundred 
never observe anything unless it’s shoved right under 
their very eyes. Of course, if we could find out if 
and where Hannaford and Granett were together 
that night, and where Granett went to after he 
slipped away at Charing Cross, it would vastly 
simplify matters. But how are we going to find 
out? There’s been immense publicity given to this 


Fligwood’s Rents 105 

case in the papers, you know, Mr. Hetherwick—• 
portraits of Hannaford, and details about the whole 
affair, and so on and yet we’ve had surprisingly 
little help and less information. I’ll tell you what it 
is, sir—what we want is that tall, muffled-up chap 
who met Hannaford at Victoria! Who is he, 
now ?” 

“Who, indeed!” assented Hetherwick. “Van¬ 
ished !—without a trace.” 

“Oh, well!” said Matherfield, cheerfully, “you 
never know when you might light on a trace. But 
here we are at this unsavoury Fligwood’s Rents.” 

The cab pulled up at the entrance to a dark, high- 
walled, stone-paved alley, which at that moment ap¬ 
peared to be full of women and children; so, too, did 
the windows on either side. The whole place was 
sombre and evil-smelling, and Hetherwick felt a 
sense of pity for the unfortunate man whose luck 
had been bad enough to bring him there. 

“A murder, a suicide, or a sudden death is as a 
breath of heaven to these folk!” said Matherfield as 
they made their way through the ragged and frowzy 
gathering. “It’s an event in uneventful lives. 
Here’s the place,” he added as they came to a door¬ 
way whereat a policeman stood on guard. “And 
here are the stairs—mind you don’t slip on ’em, for 
the wood’s broken and the banisters are smashed.” 


106 Black Money 

Hetherwick cautiously followed his guide to the 
top of the house. There at another door stood a 
second policeman, engaged when they caught sight 
of him in looking out through the dirt-obscured win¬ 
dow of the landing. His bored countenance bright¬ 
ened when he saw Matherfield: stepping back he 
quietly opened the door at his side. And the new¬ 
comers, silent in view of the task before them, tip¬ 
toed into the room beyond. 

It was, as Matherfield had remarked, a poor place, 
but it was clean and orderly, and its occupant had 
evidently tried to make it as habitable and comfort¬ 
able as his means would allow. There were one or 
two good prints on the table; half-a-dozen books on 
an old chest of drawers; in a cracked vase on the 
mantelpiece there were a few flowers, wilted and 
dead. Hetherwick took in all this at a glance; then 
he turned to Matherfield, who silently drew aside a 
sheet from the head and shoulders of the rigid 
figure on the bed, and looked enquiringly at his com¬ 
panion. And Hetherwick gave the dead man’s face 
one careful inspection and nodded. 

“Yes!” he said. “That’s the man!” 

“Without doubt?” asked Matherfield. 

“No doubt at all,” affirmed Hetherwick. “That 
is the man who was with Hannaford in the train. 
I knew him instantly.” 


Fligwood’s Rents 107 

Matherfield replaced the sheet and turned to a 
small table which stood in the window. On it was 
a box, a square, old-fashioned thing, clamped at the 
corners. 

“This seems to be the only thing he had that’s 
what you may call private,” he observed. “It’s 
locked, but I’ve got a tool here that’ll open it. I 
want to know what’s in it—there may be something 
that’ll give us a clue.” 

Hetherwick stood by while Matherfield forced 
open the lock with an instrument which he produced 
from his pocket, and began to examine the contents 
of the box. At first there seemed little that was 
likely to yield information. There was a complete 
suit of clothes and an outfit of decent linen; it seemed 
as if Granett had carefully kept these in view of 
better days. There were more books, all of a tech¬ 
nical nature, relating to chemistry; there was a small 
case containing chemical apparatus and another in 
which lay a pair of scales; in a third they found a 
microscope. 

“He wasn’t down to the very end of his resources, 
or he’d have pawned these things,” muttered 
Matherfield. “They all look good stuff, especially 
the microscope. But here’s more what I want— 
letters!” 

He drew forth two bundles of letters, neatly ar- 


108 Black Money 

ranged and tied up with tape. Unloosing the fasten¬ 
ings and rapidly spreading the envelopes out on the 
table, he suddenly put his finger on an address. 

‘‘There you are, Mr. Hetherwick!” he exclaimed. 
“That’s just what I expected to find out—though I 
certainly didn’t think we should discover it so 
quickly. This man has lived at Sellithwaite some 
time or other. Look there, at this address— Mr. 
James Granett, 7 Victoria Terrace, Sellithwaite, 
Yorkshire. Of course!—that’s how he came to 
know and be with Hannaford. They were old ac¬ 
quaintances. See—there are several letters!” 

Hetherwick took two or three of the envelopes in 
his hand and looked closely at them. He perceived 
at once what Matherfield had not noticed. 

“Just so!” he said. “But what’s of far more im¬ 
portance is the date. Look at this—you see? That 
shows that Granett was living at Sellithwaite ten 
years ago—it was of that time that Hannaford was 
talking to him in the train.” 

“Oh, we’re getting at something!” assented 
Matherfield. “Now we’ll put everything back, and 
I’ll take this box away and examine it thoroughly 
at leisure.” He replaced the various articles, twisted 
a cord round the box, knotted it, and turned to the 
dead man’s clothes, lying neatly folded on a chair 
close by. “I haven’t had a look at the pockets of 


Fligwood’s Rents 109 

those things, yet,” he continued. ‘Til just take a 
glance—you never know.” 

Hetherwick again watched in silence. There was 
little of interest revealed until Matherfield suddenly 
drew a folded bit of paper from one of the waist¬ 
coat pockets. Smoothing it out he uttered a sharp 
exclamation. 

“Good!” he said. “See this? A brand new five 
pound note! Now, I’ll lay anything he hadn’t had 
that on him long! Got it that night, doubtless! 
And—from whom?” 

“I should say Hannaford gave it him,” suggested 
Hetherwick. 

But Matherfield shook his head and put the note 
in his own pocket. 

“That’s a definite clue!” he said, with emphasis. 
“I can trace that!” 


CHAPTER IX 


THE MEDICINE BOTTLE 

J__JETHERWICK went away from the sordid at¬ 
mosphere of Fligwood’s Rents wondering more 
than ever at this new development: he continued 
to wonder and to speculate all the rest of that day 
and most of the next. That Granett’s sudden death 
had followed on Hannaford’s seemed to him a sure 
proof that there was more behind this mystery than 
anybody had so far conceived of: personally, he had 
not the slightest doubt that whoever poisoned 
Hannaford had also poisoned Granett. And he was 
not at all surprised when late in the afternoon of 
the day following upon that of the visit to Dorking, 
Matherfield walked into his chambers with a face 
full of news. 

‘T know what you’re going to tell me, Mather¬ 
field,” said Hetherwick, motioning his visitor to an 
easy chair. “The doctors have held a post-mortem 
on Granett, and they find that he was poisoned.” 

Matherfield’s face fell—he was robbed of his 
chance of dramatic announcement. 


no 


The Medicine Bottle 


hi 


“Well, and that’s just what I was going to tell 
you,” he answered. “That’s what they do say. 
Same doctors that performed the autopsy on Hanna- 
ford. Doesn’t surprise you ?” 

“Not in the least!” replied Hetherwick. “I ex¬ 
pected it. They’re sure of it?” 

“Dead certain! But, as in Hannaford’s case, 
they’re not certain of the particular poison used. 
However—also as in his case—they’ve submitted the 
whole case to two big swells in that line—one of ’em 
the man that’s always employed by the Home Office 
in these affairs, and the other that famous special¬ 
ist at St. Martha’s Hospital—I forget his name. 
They’ll get to work—they’re at work on the Hanna- 
ford case now. Difficult job, I understand—some 
very subtle poison, probably little known. How¬ 
ever, I believe we’ve got a clue about it.” 

“A clue—about the poison?” exclaimed Hether¬ 
wick. “What clue?” 

“Well, this,” answered Matherfield. “After 
you’d gone away from Fligwood’s Rents yesterday 
afternoon, and while I was making arrangements 
for the removal of the poor chap’s body, I took 
another careful look round the room. Now, if you 
noticed things as closely as all that, you may have ob¬ 
served that Granett’s bed was partly in a sort of 
a l C0V e—the head part. In the corner of that alcove, 


112 Black Money 

or recess, just where he could have set them down 
by reaching his arm out of bed, I found a bottle and 
a glass tumbler. The bottle was an ordinary medi¬ 
cine bottle—not a very big one. It had the cork in 
it, and about an inch of fluid, which, on taking out 
the cork, I found to be whisky, and I should say 
by the smell, whisky of very good quality. But I 
noticed that there was the very slightest trace of 
some sort of sediment at the bottom. There was 
a trace of similar sediment in the bottom of the 
tumbler. Now, of course, I put these things up 
most carefully, sealed them, and handed them over 
to the doctors. For it was very evident to me—re¬ 
constructing things, you know—that Granett had 
mixed himself a drink, a nightcap if you like to call 
it so, from that bottle on getting into bed, and had 
then put bottle and glass down by his bed-head in 
the corner. And just as I mean to trace that five 
pound note, Mr. Hetherwick, so I mean to trace 
that bottle!” 

“How?” asked Hetherwick, closely interested. 
“And to what, or whom?” 

“To the chemist’s where it came from,” answered 
Matherfield. “It came from some chemist’s, and I’ll 
find which!” 

“There are hundreds of chemists in London,” 
said Hetherwick. “It’s a stiff proposition!” 


The Medicine Bottle 


113 


“It’s going to be done, anyway,” asserted Mather- 
field. “And it mayn’t be such a stiff job as it at 
first looks to be. See here!—there were labels on 
that bottle, both of ’em torn and defaced, it’s true, 



C. A i ptEsq., 
The mixk||re as before 
No. A.1152 


Note This medicine has 
been dispensed by a fully 
qualif ied Chemist with the 
?possible drugs 
md Is guaranteed 
The wishes of 



but still with enough on them to narrow down the 
field of enquiry. I’ve had the face of the bottle 
photographed—here’s a print of the result.” 

He brought out a photographic print, roughly 
finished and mounted on a card, and handed it over 
to Hetherwick, who took it to the light and examined 


8 





























































































114 Black Money 

it carefully. It showed the front of the medicine 
bottle, with a label at the top and another at the 
bottom. Each had been torn, as if to obliterate 
names and addresses, but a good deal of the letter¬ 
ing was left. 

“That bottom label's the thing, Mr. Hetherwick,” 
remarked Matherfield. “Let us get that hiatus filled 
up with the name and address of the chemist, and I’ll 
soon find out who C. A—blank Esquire is! The 
chemist is one in the West Central district; he’s a 
member of the Pharmaceutical Society; he’ll have 
somebody whose initials are C. A. on his books; 
he’ll recognise the number A. 1152 of the prescrip¬ 
tion. It’s a decided clue—and even if there are, as 
there undoubtedly are, scores of chemists in the 
West Central district, I’ll run this one down!” 

Hetherwick handed back the photograph and be¬ 
gan to pace up and down the room. Suddenly he 
turned on his visitor, his mind made up to tell him 
what he himself had been doing. 

“Matherfield!” he said, dropping into his chair 
again and adopting a tone of confidence. “What 
do you make of this ? I mean—what’s your theory ? 
Is it your opinion that the deaths of these two men 
are—so to speak—all of a piece?” 

“That is my opinion!” answered Matherfield with 
an emphatic nod. “I’ve no more doubt about it 


The Medicine Bottle 115 

than I have that I see you, Mr. Hetherwick! All of 
a piece, to be sure! Whoever poisoned Hannaford, 
poisoned Granett! I’ll tell you how I’ve figured it 
out since the doctors told me, only a couple of hours 
since, what their opinion is about Granett. This 
way—Hannaford and Granett knew each other at 
Sellithwaite, ten years ago. That night when 
Granett left Appleyard in Horseferry Road and 
turned into Victoria Street, he met Hannaford— 
accidentally.” 

“Why accidentally?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Well, that’s what I think,” said Matherfield. 
“I’ve figured it that way. Of course, it may have 
been by appointment. But anyway, they met—we 
know that. Now then, where did they spend their 
time between then and the time they got into your 
carriage at St. James’s Park? We don’t know. But 
here comes in an unknown factor—what about the 
strange man at Victoria, the man muffled to his eyes ? 
Two things suggest themselves to me, Mr. Hether¬ 
wick. Did Hannaford take Granett to see that man, 
or did Hannaford and Granett meet at that man’s? 
For I think that man, whoever he is, is at the bot¬ 
tom of everything!” 

“Why should they meet at that man’s?” asked 
Hetherwick. 

“Well,” answered Matherfield, “I think that secret 


116 Black Money 

of Hannaford’s has something to do with it. He 
had the sealed packet on him when he left Maker’s 
Hotel—it had disappeared when we searched his 
clothing after his death. Now, the granddaughter 
says it had to do with chemicals. Suppose the tall, 
muffled man was a chap whose business opinion on 
this secret Hannaford wanted, and that they met at 
Victoria and went to the man’s rooms somewhere in 
that district? Suppose Granett—another man in 
the chemistry line!—came there, knowing both? 
Supposing the muffled man poisoned both of ’em, to 
keep the secret to himself? Do you see what I’m 
after? Very well!—there you are. The thing is to 
hunt out that man, whoever he is. I wish I knew 
what Hannaford’s secret was, though!—its precise 
nature.” 

“Matherfield!” said Hetherwick, “I’ll tell you! 
You’ve been very confidential with me—I’ll be 
equally so with you, on condition that we work to¬ 
gether from this. The fact is I’ve been at work. 
I’m immensely interested in this case—ever since 
I saw Hannaford die in that train and in that aw¬ 
fully mysterious fashion it’s fascinated me, and I’m 
going to the very end of it. Now I’ll tell you all 

I’ve been doing, and what I’ve discovered. Listen_ 

carefully.” 

He went on to tell his visitor the whole details of 


The Medicine Bottle 


117 

his visit to Sellithwaite, of the results of his investi¬ 
gations there, and of Rhona’s doings and observa¬ 
tions at Riversreade Court. Matherfield listened in 
absorbed silence. 

“Is Miss Hannaford going to this secretaryship, 
then?’' he demanded abruptly at the end of Hether- 
wick’s story. “Is it settled ?” 

“Practically, yes,” replied Hetherwick. “I heard 
from Lady Riversreade this morning; so did Mr. 
Kenthwaite. We gave Miss Hannaford—to be 
known to Lady Riversreade as Miss Featherstone— 
very good recommendations for the post, and I ex¬ 
pect that as soon as she’s had our letters, Lady 
Riversreade will telephone to Miss Hannaford that 
she’s to go at once. Then—she’ll go.” 

“To act as—spy?” suggested Matherfield. 

“If you put it that way—yes,” assented Hether¬ 
wick. “Though, from what she saw of her yester¬ 
day, Miss Hannaford formed a very favourable 
opinion of Lady Riversreade. However, I’m so 
certain that, somehow or other, perhaps innocently, 
she’s connected with this affair, that we mustn’t lose 
any chance.” 

“And Miss Hannaford will report anything likely 
to you ?” asked Matherfield. 

“Just so! Miss Hannaford’s duties don’t include 
any Sunday work—on Sunday she’ll come to town, 


n8 Black Money 

and, if there’s anything to tell, she’ll tell it—to me. 
She’s a smart, clever girl, Matherfield, and she’ll 
keep her eyes open.” 

Matherfield nodded, and for awhile sat silent, 
evidently lost in his own thoughts 

“Oh, she’s a clever girl, right enough!” he said 
suddenly. “Um!—I wonder who this Lady Rivers- 
reade really is, now?” 

“This Lady Riversreade!” laughed Hetherwick. 
“A multi-millionairess!” 

“Aye, just so—but who was she before her mar¬ 
riage? If she is a woman who was known as Mrs. 
Whittingham-” 

“Can there be any doubt about it?—after what I 
found out?” 

“You never know, Mr. Hetherwick! Lord bless 
you!—they talk about the long arm of coincidence. 
Why, in my time I’ve known of things that make 
me feel there’s nothing wonderful about the most 
amazing coincidence! But—if Lady Riversreade 
used to be Mrs. Whittingham—then I’d like to know 
all about Mrs. Whittingham until she became Lady 
Riversreade, and who she was before she was Mrs. 
Whittingham, if she ever was Mrs. Whittingham!” 

“Stiff job, Matherfield,” said Hetherwick. “I 
think we shall have enough to do to keep an eye on 
Lady Riversreade.” 



The Medicine Bottle 


119 

“You anticipate something there ?” suggested 
Matherfield. 

“I think something may transpire,” replied 
Hetherwick. 

Matherfield got to his feet. 

“Well!” he said, “keep me informed, and I’ll keep 
you informed. We’ve something to go on—Lord 
knows what we shall make out of it!” 

“You’re doing your best to trace the tall man?” 
asked Hetherwick. 

“Best!” exclaimed Matherfield, with an air of 
disgust. “We’ve done our best and our better than 
best! I’ve had special men all round that Victoria 
district—I should think every tall man in that part’s 
been eyed over. And I believe that Mr. Ledbitter has 
so got the thing on his brain that he’s been spending 
all his spare time patrolling the neighbourhood and 
going in and out of restaurants and saloons looking 
for the man he saw!—of course without result.” 

“All the same,” said Hetherwick—“that man is— 
somewhere!” 

Matherfield went away, and except at the inquest 
on Granett—whereat nothing transpired which was 
not already known—Hetherwick did not see him 
again for several days. He himself progressed no 
further in his investigations during that time. 
Rhona Hanna ford betook herself to River sreade 


120 Black Money 

Court, as secretary to its mistress’s Home, and until 
the Sunday succeeding his departure Hetherwick 
heard nothing of her. Then she came up to town on 
that Sunday morning, and in accordance with their 
previous arrangement, Hetherwick met her at Vic¬ 
toria, and took her to lunch at a neighbouring hotel. 

“Anything to.tell?” he asked when they had set¬ 
tled down to their soup. “Any happenings?” 

“Nothing!” answered Rhona. “Everything ex¬ 
ceedingly proper, business-like, and orderly. And 
Lady Riversreade appears to me to be a model sort 
of person—her devotion to that Home and its in¬ 
mates is remarkable! I don’t believe anything’s 
going to happen, or that I shall ever have anything to 
report.” 

“Well, that’ll have its compensation,” said Hether¬ 
wick. “Leave us all the more time for ourselves, 
won’t it?” 

He gave her a look to which Rhona responded, 
shyly but unmistakably; she knew, as well as he 
did, that they were getting fond of each other’s 
society. And they continued to meet on Sundays, 
and three or four went by, and still she had nothing 
to tell that related to the mystery of Hannaford and 
Granett. 

Three weeks elapsed before Matherfield had any¬ 
thing to tell, either. Then he walked into Hether- 


The Medicine Bottle 


121 


wick’s chambers one morning with news in his face. 

“Traced it!” he said. “Knew I should! That 
five pound note—brand new. Only a question of 
time to do that, of course.” 

“Well?” enquired Hetherwick. 

“It was one of twenty fivers paid by the cashier 
of the London & Country Bank in Piccadilly to the 
secretary of Vivian’s,” continued Matherfield. “Date 
—day before Hannaford’s death. Vivian’s, let me 
tell you, is a swell night-club. Now then, how did 
that note get into the hands of Granett? That’s 
going to be a stiff ’un!” 

“So stiff that I’m afraid you mustn’t ask me to 
go in at it!” agreed Hetherwick, good-humouredly. 
“I must stick to my own line—when the chance 
comes.” 

The chance came on the following Sunday, when, 
in pursuance of now established custom, he met 
Rhona. She gave him a significant look as soon as 
she got out of the train. 

“News—at last!” she said, as they turned up the 
platform. “Something’s happened—but what it 
means I don’t know.” 


CHAPTER X 


THE MYSTERIOUS VISITOR 


IE head-waiter in the restaurant to which 



A Hetherwick and Rhona repaired every Sunday 
immediately upon her arrival, now knew these two 
well by sight, and forming his own conclusions about 
them always reserved for them a table in a quiet and 
secluded corner. Hither they now proceeded, and 
had scarcely taken their accustomed seats before 
Rhona plunged into her story. 

“I expect you want to know what it’s all about, 
so I won't keep you waiting,” she said. “It was on 
Friday—Friday morning—that it happened, and I 
half thought of writing to you about it that evening. 
Then I thought it best to tell you personally, to-day 
—besides, I should have had to write an awfully 
long letter. There are things to explain—I’d better 
explain them first. Our arrangements down there 
at Riversreade, for instance. They’re like this— 
Lady Riversreade and I always breakfast together at 
the Court, about nine o’clock. At ten we go across 
the grounds to the Home. There we have a sort of 


122 


The Mysterious Visitor 123 

formal office—two rooms, one of which, the first 
opening from the hall I have, the other, opening out 
of it, is Lady Riversreade’s private sanctum. In the 
hall itself we have an ex-Army man, Mitchell, as 
hall-porter, to attend to the door and so on. All 
the morning we are busy with letters, accounts, re¬ 
ports of the staff and that sort of thing. We have 
lunch at the Home, and we’re generally busy until 
four or five o’clock. Got all that ?” 

“Every scrap!” replied Hetherwick. “Perfectly 
plain.” 

“Very well,” continued Rhona. “One more de¬ 
tail, however. A good many people, chiefly medical 
men and folk interested in homes and hospitals call, 
wanting to look over and to know about the place— 
which, I may tell you in parenthesis, costs Lady 
Riversreade a pretty tidy penny! Mitchell’s instruc¬ 
tions as regards all callers are to bring their cards to 
me—I interview them first; if I can deal with them, 
I do: if I think it necessary or desirable, I take them 
in to Lady Riversreade. We have to sort them out 
—some, I am sure, come out of mere idle curiosity; 
in fact, the only visitors we want to see there are 
either medical men who have a genuine interest in 
the place and can do something for it, or people who 
are connected with its particular inmates. Well, on 
Friday morning last, about a quarter to twelve, as I 


124 


Black Money 


was busy with my letters, I heard a car come up the 
drive, and presently Mitchell came into my room 
with a card bearing the name Dr. Cyprian Baseverie. 
Instead of being an engraved card, as, by all the 
recognised standards, it should have been, it was 
a printed card—that was the first thing I no¬ 
ticed/’ 

“Your powers of observation,” remarked Hether- 
wick, admiringly, “are excellent, and should prove 
most useful!” 

“Thank you for the compliment!—but that didn’t 
need much observation,” retorted Rhona with a 
laugh. “It was—obvious. However, I asked 

Mitchell what Dr. Baseverie wanted; Mitchell re¬ 
plied that the gentleman desired an interview with 
Lady Riversreade. Now a&J said before, we never 
refuse doctors, so I told >11 to bring Dr. Base¬ 
verie to me. A moment late* Q/. Baseverie entered. 
I want to describe him particularly, and you must 
listen most attentively. Figure, then, to yourself a 
man of medium height, neither stout nor slender, but 
comfortably plump, and, apparently, about forty-five 
years of age, dressed very correctly and fashionably 
in a black morning-coat and vest, dark ^tj^iped 
trousers, immaculate as to hnen and neck 
furnished with a new silk hl^^earl-g 
and a tightly rolk^Bgold-fiiounted umbrella 



The Mysterious Visitor 125 

dentally, he wore a thin gold watch-chain, white 
gaiters, and highly polished shoes. Got that?” 

“I see him—his clothes and things, I mean,” as¬ 
sented Hetherwick. “Fashionable medico sort, evi¬ 
dently ! But—himself ?” 

“Now his face,” continued Rhona. “Imagine a 
man with an almost absolutely bloodless countenance 
—a face the colour of old ivory—lighted by a pair 
of peculiarly piercing eyes, black as sloes, and the 
pallor of the face heightened by a rather heavy black 
moustache and equally black, slightly crinkled hair, 
thick enough above the ears but becoming sparse 
and thin on the crown. Imagine, too, a pair of full, 
red lips above a round but determined chin, and a 
decidedly hooked nose, and you have—the man Fm 
describing!” 

“Um!” said Hetherwick, reflectingly. “Hebraic, 
I think, from your description.” 

“That’s just what I thought, myself,” agreed 
Rhona. “I said to myself at once, ‘Whatever and 
whoever else you are, my friend, you’re a Jew.’ 
But the creature’s manner and speech were English 
enough—very English. He had all the well-accus¬ 
tomed air of the medical practitioner who is also a 
bit of a man of the world, and I saw at once that 
anybody who tried to fence with him would usually 
come off second-best. His explanation of his pres- 


126 Black Money 

ence was reasonable and commonplace enough—he 
was deeply interested in the sort of cases we had in 
the Home and desired to acquaint himself with our 
methods and arrangements, and so on. He made use 
of a few technical terms and phrases which were 
quite beyond my humble powers, and I carried in 
his card to Lady Riversreade. Lady Riversreade is 
always accessible when there’s a doctor in the case, 
and in two minutes Dr. Baseverie was closeted with 
her.” 

“That ends the first chapter, 1 suppose,” said 
Hetherwick. “Interesting—very! A good curtain! 
And the next?” 

“The events of the second chapter,” replied 
Rhona, “took place in Lady Riversreade’s room, and 
I cannot even guess at their nature. I can only tell 
of things that I know. But there’s a good deal in 
that. To begin with, although Dr. Baseverie had 
said to me that he desired to see the Home-—which, 
of course, in the ordinary way meant his being either 
taken round by Lady Riversreade, or by our resi¬ 
dent house-physician, he was not taken round. He 
never left that room from the moment he entered 
it until the moment in which he left it. And he re¬ 
mained in it an entire hour!” 

“With Lady Riversreade?” 

“With Lady Riversreade! She never left it, 


The Mysterious Visitor 127 

either. Nor did I go into it; she hates me to go in 
if she has anybody with her, at any time. No!— 
there those two were, together, from ten minutes 
to twelve until five minutes to one. Yet, the man 
had said that he wanted to look round!” 

“Is there any other way by which they could have 
left that room?” suggested Hetherwick. “Another 
door?—or a French window?” 

“There is nothing of the sort. The door into my 
room is the only means of entrance or exit to or 
from Lady Riversreade’s. No—they were there all 
the time.” 

“Did you hear anything?” 

“Nothing! The house in which Lady Riversreade 
set up this Home is an old, solid, well-built one— 
none of your modern gimcrack work in it!—it’s a 
far better house than the Court, grand as that may 
be. All the doors and windows fit—I never heard 
a sound from the room.” 

“Well,” asked Hetherwick, after due meditation, 
“and at the end of the hour-?” 

“At the end of the hour the door suddenly opened, 
and Dr. Baseverie appeared, hat, gloves, and um¬ 
brella in hand. He half turned as he came out and 
said a few words to Lady Riversreade. I heard them. 
He said, ‘Well, then, next Friday morning at the 
same time ?’ Then he nodded, stepped into my room, 



128 Black Money 

and closed the door behind him, made me a very 
polite, smiling bow as he passed my desk, and went 
out. A moment later he drove off in the car—it had 
been waiting at the entrance all that time.” 

“I suppose that’s the end of chapter two,” sug¬ 
gested Hetherwick. “Is there more?” 

“Some!” responded Rhona. “During the hour 
which Dr. Baseverie had spent with Lady Rivers- 
reade, I had been very busy typing letters. When he 
had gone, I took them into her room, so that she 
could sign them. I suppose I was a bit curious 
about what had just happened, and may have been 
more than usually observing—anyway, I felt cer¬ 
tain that the visit of this man, whoever he is, had 
considerably upset Lady Riversreade. She looked 
it!” 

“Precisely how ?” enquired Hetherwick. 

“Well, I couldn’t exactly tell you. Perhaps a man 
wouldn’t have noticed it. But being a woman, I did. 
She was perturbed—she’d been annoyed, or dis¬ 
tressed, or surprised, or—something. I saw signs 
which, as a woman, were unmistakable—to a 
woman. The man’s visit had been distasteful— 
troubling. I’m as certain of that as I am that this 
is roast mutton.” 

“Did she say anything?” 

“Not one word! She was unusually taciturn— 


The Mysterious Visitor 129 

silent, in fact. She took the letters in silence, signed 
them in silence. No—on reflection, she never spoke 
a word while I was in the room. I took the letters 
away and began putting them in their envelopes. 
Soon afterwards Lady Riversreade came through 
my room and went out, and I saw her go across the 
grounds to the Court. She didn’t turn up at the 
usual luncheon at the Home, and I didn’t see her 
again that afternoon. In fact, I didn’t see her again 
that day, for when I went home to the Court at 
five o’clock, Lady Riversreade’s maid told me that 
her mistress had gone up to town, and wouldn’t be 
home until late that night. I went to bed before she 
returned.” 

“Next morning?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Next morning she was just as usual, and things 
went on in the usual way.” 

“Did she ever mention this man and his visit to 
you ?” asked Hetherwick. 

“No!—not a word of him. But I found out 
something about him, myself, on Friday afternoon.” 

“What ? Something relevant ?” 

“May be relevant to—something. I was wonder¬ 
ing about him—and his printed card. I thought it 
odd that a medical man, so smartly dressed and all 
that, should present a card like that—not one well 
printed, a cheap thing! Besides, it had no address. 


130 Black Money 

I wondered—mere inquisitiveness, perhaps—where 
the creature came from. Now we've a jolly good 
lot of the usual reference books there at the Home— 
and there's a first-class right up-to-date medical direc¬ 
tory amongst them. So I looked up the name of Dr. 
Cyprian Baseverie. I say, looked it up—but I didn't 
do that. For it wasn't there! He's neither an 
English, nor a Scottish, nor an Irish medical man." 

“Foreigner, then," said Hetherwick. “French, 
perhaps. Or—American." 

“May be an Egyptian, or a Persian, or an Eura¬ 
sian, for anything I know," remarked Rhona. 
“What I know is that he’s not on the list in that 
directory, though from his speech and manner you’d 
think he’d been practising in the West End all his 
life! Anyway, that’s the story. Is there anything 
in it?" 

Hetherwick picked up his glass oi claret by its 
stem and looked thoughtfully through the contents 
of the bowl. 

“The particular thing is—the extent and quality 
of Lady Riversreade’s annoyance, or dismay, or per¬ 
turbation, occasioned by the man’s visit," he said at 
last. “If she was really very much upset-" 

“If you want my honest opinion as eyewitness 
and as woman," remarked Rhona, “Lady Rivers- 
reade was very much upset. She gave me the 



The Mysterious Visitor 131 

impression that she’d just received very bad, dis¬ 
concerting, unpleasant news. After seeing and 
watching her as she signed the letters I had no doubt 
whatever that the man had deliberately lied to me 
when he said he wanted to see the Home and its 
working—what he really wanted was access to Lady 
Riversreade.” 

“Look here!” exclaimed Hetherwick, suddenly. 
“Were you present when this man went into Lady 
Riversreade’s room?” 

“Present? Of course I was! I took him in— 
myself.” 

“You saw them meet?” 

“To be sure I” 

“Well, then, you know! Were they strangers? 
Did she recognise him? Did she show any sign 
of recognition whatever when she set eyes on 
him?” 

“No, none! I’m perfectly certain she’d never 
seen the man before in her life! I could see quite 
well that he was an absolute stranger to her.” 

“And she?—to him?” 

“Oh, that I don’t know! He may have seen her 
a thousand times. But I’m sure she’d never seen 
him.” 

Hetherwick laid down his knife and fork with 
a gesture of finality. 


132 Black Money 

“I’m going to find out who that chap is!” he an¬ 
swered. “Got to!” 

“You think his visit may have something to do 
with this ?” asked Rhona. 

“May, yes! Anyway, I’m not going to let any 
chance go. There’s enough mystery in what you 
tell me about the man to make it worth while fol¬ 
lowing him up. It must be done.” 

“How will you do it?” 

“You say he said that he was going there again, 
next Friday, at the same time? Well, the thing to 
do then is to watch and follow him when he goes 
away!” 

“I’m afraid I’m no use for that! He’d know 
me. 

“Nor am I!—I’m too conspicuous,” laughed 
Hetherwick. “If I were a head and shoulder 
shorter, I might be some use. But I’ve got the very 
man—my clerk: one Mapperley. He’s just the sort 
to follow and dog anybody and yet never be seen 
himself. As you’ll say, when you’ve the pleasure 
of seeing him. Mapperley’s the most ordinary, com¬ 
monplace chap you ever set eyes on—pass abso¬ 
lutely unnoticed in any Cockney crowd! But he’s 
as sharp as they make ’em, veiling a peculiar astute¬ 
ness under his eminently undistinguished features. 
And what I shall do is this—I’ll give Mapperley a 


The Mysterious Visitor 133 

full and detailed description of Dr. Cyprian Base- 
verie: I’ve memorised yours already: Mapperley 
will memorise mine. Now Baseverie, whoever he 
may be, will probably go down to Dorking by the 
10:10 from here: so will Mapperley. And after 
Mapperley has once spotted his man, he’ll not lose 
sight of him!” 

“And he’ll do—what ?” asked Rhona. 

“Follow him to Dorking—watch him—follow 
him back to London—find out where he goes when 
he returns—run him to earth, in fact. Then he’ll 
report to me—and we shall know more than we do 
now, and also what to do next.” 

“I wonder what it’s all going to lead to?” said 
Rhona. “Pretty much of a maze, isn’t it?” 

“It is,” agreed Hetherwick. “But if we can 
only get a firm hold on a thread-” 

“And that might break!” she laughed. 

“Well, then, one that won’t break,” he said. 
“There are several loose ends lying about already. 
Matherfield’s got a hold on one or two.” 

He went to see Matherfield next morning and told 
him the story that he had heard from Rhona. 
Matherfield grew thoughtful. 

“Well, Mr. Hetherwick,” he said after a pause, 
“it’s as I’ve said before—if this Lady Riversreade 
is mixed up in it, the thing to do is go back and get 



134 Black Money 

as full a history as can possibly be got of her ante¬ 
cedents. We’ll have to get on to that—but we’ll 
wait to see what that clerk of yours discovers about 
this man. There may be something in it—in the 
meantime I’m hard at work on my own clues.” 

“Any luck?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Scarcely that. But, as I say, we’re at work. 
The five pound note is a difficult matter. Given in 
change, of course, at Vivian’s Night Club—but they 
tell me there that it’s no uncommon thing to change 
ten, twenty, and even fifty pound notes for their cus¬ 
tomers—it’s a swell lot who foregather there—and 
of course they’ve no recollection whatever about 
that particular note or night. Still, the fact remains 
—that note came through Vivian’s, and through one 
of its frequenters to Granett, and I’m in hopes.” 

“And the medicine bottle?” suggested Hether¬ 
wick. 

“Ah, there is more chance!” responded Mather- 
field, with a lightening eye. “That’s only a ques¬ 
tion of time! I’ve got a man going round all the 
chemists in the West Central district—stiff job, for 
there are more of ’em than I believed. But he’s 
bound to hit on the right one, eventually. And then 
—well, we shall have a pretty good idea, if not posi¬ 
tive proof as to how Granett got hold of the stuff 
that poisoned him.” 


The Mysterious Visitor 135 

“I suppose there’s no doubt that there was poison 
in that bottle?” enquired Hetherwick. 

“According to the specialists, none,” replied 
Matherfield. “And in the glass, too. What sort of 
poison, I don’t know—you know what these experts 
are—so mysterious about things! But they have 
told me this—the stuff that settled Granett was iden¬ 
tical with that which finished off Hannaford. That’s 
certain!” 

“Then it probably came from the same source,” 
said Hetherwick. 

“Oh, my notion is that the man or men who 
poisoned one man poisoned the other!” exclaimed 
Matherfield, “and at the same time. At least, I think 
Granett got his dose at the same time—probably car¬ 
ried it off in his pocket and drank it when he got 
home. But—we shall trace that bottle! Let me 
know what you find out about this man Baseverie, 
Mr. Hetherwick—every little helps.” 

Hetherwick duly coached Mapperley in the part 
he wanted him to play, and Mapperley, with money 
in his pockets and a pipe in his mouth, lounged off 
to Victoria on the following Friday morning. His 
principal saw nothing and heard nothing of him all 
that day. But as Hetherwick was breakfasting next 
morning, Mapperley, outwardly commonplace and 
phlegmatic as ever, walked into his room. 


136 Black Money 

“Brief outline first, Mapperley,” commanded 
Hetherwick, instinctively scenting news. “Details 
later. Well?” 

“Spotted him at once at Victoria,” said Mapper- 
ley.” “Followed him down there. He was at 
Riversreade an hour. Then went back to Dorking— 
had lunch at Red Lion. He stopped there till four 
o’clock, lunching and idling. Went back to town 
by the 4:29, arriving 6:5. I followed him then to 
the Cafe de Paris. He dined there and hung about 
till past ten. And then he went to Vivian’s Night 
Club.” 


CHAPTER XI 


LADY RIVERSREADE 

T TETHERWICK pricked up his ears at that. 

1 Vivian’s Night Club!—here, at any rate, 
seemed to be a link in the chain of which Matherfield 
believed himself to hold at least one end. The five 
pound note found on Granett had been traced to 
Vivian’s Night Club: now Mapperley had tracked 
Lady Riversreade’s mysterious visitor to the same 
resort. 

“To Vivian’s Night Club, eh, Mapperley?” he 
said. “Let’s see?—where is that?” 

“Entrance is in Candlestick Passage, off St. 
Martin’s Lane,” replied Mapperley with prompti¬ 
tude. “Club’s on first floor—jolly fine suite of 
rooms, too!” 

“You’ve been in it?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Twice! Not last night, though. You didn’t 
give me any further orders than to see where he 
went, finally, after returning to Town. So, when 
I’d run him to earth at Vivian’s, I went home. I 
argued that if he was wanted, further, Vivian’s 
would find him.” 


127 


*38 Black Money 

“All right, Mapperley. But before that? You 
followed him to Riversreade Court ?” 

Mapperley grinned widely. 

“No!—I did better than that. I was there before 
him—much better, that, than following. I spotted 
him, quick enough, at Victoria, and made sure he got 
into the 10:10. Then I got in. As soon as we got 
to Dorking, I jumped out, got outside the station 
and chartered a taxi and drove off to Riversreade 
Court. I made the driver hide his cab up the road: 
I laid low in the plantation opposite the entrance 
gates. Presently my lord came along and drove up 
to the house. He was there the best part of an hour; 
then he drove off again towards Dorking. I fol¬ 
lowed—at a good distance: kept him in sight, all the 
same. He got out of his conveyance in the High 
Street: so did I. He went into the Red Lion: so 
did I. He had lunch there: so had I. After that 
he lounged about in the smoking-room: I kept an eye 
on him.” * 

“I suppose he didn’t meet anybody?” 

“Nobody!” 

“Well, and at the Cafe de Paris? Did he meet 
anybody there?” 

“He exchanged a nod and a word here and there 
with men—and women—that came in and went out. 
But as to any arranged meeting—I should say not. 


Lady Riversreade 139 

I should say, too, that he was well known at the 
Cafe de Paris.” 

“Did he seem to be a man of means?—You know 
what I mean?” 

“He did himself very well at lunch and dinner, 
anyway,” said Mapperley with another grin. “Bottle 
of claret at Dorking and a pint of champagne at 
the Cafe de Paris—big cigars, too. That sort of 
man, you know.” 

Hetherwick considered matters a moment. 

“How do you get into this Vivian’s Night Club?” 
he asked suddenly. 

“Pay!” answered Mapperley, laconically. “At 
the door. Some nonsense about being proposed, 
but that’s all bosh! Two of you go—say Brown 
and Smith. Brown proposes Smith and Smith 
proposes Brown. All rot! Anybody can get in— 
with money.” 

“And what goes on there ?” 

“Dancing! Drinking! Devilry! Quite respect¬ 
able, though,” replied Mapperley. “Been no prose¬ 
cutions, anyway—so far.” 

“What time does it open?” 

“Nine o’clock,” answered Mapperley, with a sug¬ 
gestive grin. “In the old days, it didn’t open till 
after the theatres. But now—earlier.” 

“Really not a night-club at all—in the old accepta- 


140 Black Money 

tion of the term,” suggested Hetherwick. ‘‘Evening 
most, really?” 

“That’s about it,” agreed Mapperley. “Anyhow, 
it’s Vivian’s.” 

For the second time in the course of his investiga¬ 
tions, Hetherwick’s thoughts turned to Boxley. 
Boxley’s love of intimate acquaintance with all sides 
of London life had doubtless led him to look in at 
Vivian’s: he would ask Boxley for some further 
information. And he looked up Boxley at the club. 

Boxley knew Vivian’s well enough—innocent and 
innocuous now, said Boxley, what with all these new 
regulations and so on: degenerated, indeed—or im¬ 
proved, just whichever way you regarded it—into 
a supper-club and that sort of thing. Dancing?— 
oh, yes, there was dancing, and so on—but things 
had altered—altered. 

“Well, I don’t want to dance there, nor to go there 
at all, for that matter, unless I’m obliged to,” said 
Hetherwick. “What I want to know is something 
about a man who, I believe, frequents the place—a 
somewhat notable man.” 

“Describe him 1 ” commanded Boxley. 

Hetherwick retailed Rhona’s description of Base- 
verie: Boxley nodded. 

“I know that man—by sight,” he said. “Seen 
him there. I believe he’s something to do with the 


Lady Riversreade h 1 

proprietorship: that place is owned by a small syndi¬ 
cate. But I don’t know his name. I’ve seen him 
outside, too—round about Leicester Square and its 
purlieus.” 

Hetherwick went from Boxley to Matherfield and 
told him the results of Mapperley’s work. 

“I know Vivian’s, of course,” said Matherfield. 
“Been in there two or three times lately in relation 
to this five pound note. Don’t remember seeing this 
man, though. But in view of what your clerk says, 
I’d like to see him. Come with me. We’ll go 
to-night.” 

“Make it Monday,” suggested Hetherwick. “To¬ 
morrow, Sunday, I shall be meeting Miss Hanna- 
ford again, and before we go to Vivian’s I’d like to 
know if she has anything to tell about the last visit 
of Baseverie to Riversreade Court—the visit that 
Mapperley watched yesterday. She may have.” 

“Monday night, then,” agreed Matherfield. “I 
don’t know what we can expect, but I’d certainly 
like to know who this man is and why he goes to 
Lady Riversreade.” 

“No good, you may be sure!” said Hetherwick. 
“But we’ll ferret it out—somehow.” 

“Odd, that things seem to be centring round 
Vivian’s!” mused Matherfield. “The fiver—and 
now this. Well—Monday evening then?—perhaps 


V 


i4 2 Black Money 

Miss Hannaford can supply a bit of extra news 
to-morrow.” 

Hetherwick, meeting Rhona at Victoria next day, 
found his arm immediately grasped in Rhona’s 
right hand and himself twisted round. 

“If you want to see Lady Riversreade in the flesh, 
there she is!” whispered Rhona. “Came up by the 
same train—there, going towards the bookstall: a 
tall man with her!” 

At that moment Lady Riversreade turned to speak 
to a porter who was carrying some light luggage 
for her, and Hetherwick had a full and good view 
of her face and figure. A fine, handsome, capable- 
looking woman, he said to himself, and one that 
once seen would not easily be forgotten. 

“Who’s the man?” he asked, looking from Lady 
Riversreade to her companion, a tall, bronzed man 
of military appearance, and apparently of about her 
own age. 

“Major Penteney,” replied Rhona, promptly. 
“He’s a friend of hers, who takes a tremendous in¬ 
terest in the Home—in fact, he acts as a sort of 
representative of it here in Town. He’s often down 
at the Court—I believe he’s in love with her.” 

“Well-matched couple,” observed Hetherwick, as 
the two people under notice moved away towards the 
exit. “And what’s Lady Riversreade come up for?” 


143 


Lady Riversreade 

“Oh, I don’t know that,” replied Rhona. “She 
never tells me anything about her private doings. 
I heard her say that she was going to Town this 
morning and shouldn’t be back until Tuesday, but 
that’s all I know.” 

“That man, Baseverie, came again on Friday?” 
suggested Hetherwick. “But I know he did—Map- 
parley watched him. Anything happen?” 

“Nothing—except that Lady Riversreade told me 
that if Dr. Baseverie called he was to be brought 
in to her at once,” answered Rhona. “He came, at 
the same time as before, and was with her an hour.” 

“Any signs on her part of being further upset?” 
asked Hetherwick. 

“No—on the contrary she seemed quite cool and 
collected after he’d gone,” said Rhona. “Of course 
she made no reference to his visit.” 

“Has she never mentioned him to you?” 

“Never! In spite of the fact that his professed 
object was to see the Home and the patients, he’s 
seen neither.” 

“Which shows that that was all a mere excuse to 
get speech with her!” muttered Hetherwick. ‘‘Well 
—we’re going to find out who this Dr. Baseverie 
is! Matherfield and I intend to get in touch with 
him to-morrow night.” 

But when the next night came Hetherwick’s plans 


144 Black Money 

about the visit to Vivian’s were frustrated by an 
unexpected happening, and neither he nor Mather- 
field as much as crossed the threshold of the night¬ 
club in Candlestick Passage. They went there at 
ten o’clock: that, said Matherfield, was a likely 
hour—between then and eleven-thirty the place 
would be full of its habitual frequenters: the notion 
was to mingle unobtrusively with whatever crowd 
chanced to be there and to keep eyes and ears open 
for whatever happened to transpire. 

Candlestick Passage, unfamiliar to Hetherwick 
until that evening, proved to be one of the many 
narrow alleys which open out of St. Martin’s Lane 
in the neighbourhood of the theatres. It wore a 
very commonplace, not to say, shabby complexion, 
and there was nothing in its atmosphere to suggest 
adventure or romance. Nor was there anything 
alluring about the entrance to Vivian’s, which was 
merely a wide, double doorway, ornamented by two 
evergreen shrubs set in tubs and revealing swing- 
doors within, and a carpeted staircase beyond. 
Hetherwick and Matherfield, however, never reached 
swing-doors or staircase: as they approached the 
outer entrance a tall woman emerged, and without 
so much as a look right or left turned down the 
passage towards the street. She paid no attention 
to the two men as she walked quickly past them— 


145 


Lady Riversreade 

but Hetherwick softly seized his companion’s arm. 

“Lady Riversreade, by all that’s wonderful!” he 
exclaimed under his breath. “That woman!” 

Matherfield turned sharply, gazing after the re¬ 
treating figure. 

“That?” he said, incredulously. “Coming out of 
here! Certain ?” 

“Dead sure!” affirmed Hetherwick. “I knew her 
at once—I’d a particularly good look at her, yester¬ 
day. That’s she!” 

“What’s she doing at Vivian’s?” muttered Mather- 
held. “Queer, that!” 

“But she’s going away from it!” said Hether¬ 
wick. “Come on!—let’s see where she goes. We 
can easily come back here. But—why not follow 
her first?” 

“Good!” agreed Matherfield. “Come on, then! 
Easily keep her in sight.” 

Lady Riversreade at that moment was turning out 
of the passage, to her left hand. When the two men 
emerged from it, she was already several yards 
ahead, going towards St. Martin’s Church. Her 
tall figure made her good to follow, but Matherfield 
kept Hetherwick back: no use, he said, in pressing 
too closely on your quarry. 

“Tall as she is and tall as we are,” he whispered, 
as they threaded in and out of the crowds on the 


146 Black Money 

pavement, “we can spot her at twenty yards. Cau¬ 
tiously, now!—she’s making for the cab rank.” 

They watched Lady Riversreade charter and 
enter a taxi-cab: in another minute it moved away. 
But it had scarcely moved when Matherfield was 
at the door of the next cab on the rank. 

“You saw that cab go off with a tall woman in 
it?” he said to the driver. “There!—just rounding 
the corner, know its driver? Right!—follow it, 
carefully. Note where it stops and if the woman 
gets out. Drive slowly past wherever that is, and 
then pull up a bit further on. Be sharp, now—this 
is—” he bent towards the man and whispered a word 
or two: a second later he and Hetherwick were in 
the cab and across the top side of Trafalgar Square. 

“This is getting a bit thick, Mr. Hetherwick,” 
remarked Matherfield. “Your clerk tracks his man 
to Vivian’s on Friday night: we find Lady Rivers¬ 
reade coming out of Vivian’s on Monday night! 
Now I shouldn’t think Lady Riversreade, whom we 
hear of chiefly as a humanitarian, a likely sort of 
lady to visit Vivian’s!” 

“She came out of Vivian’s, anyway!” replied 
Hetherwick. 

“Then, of course, she’d been in!” said Mather¬ 
field. “But why ? I should say—to have a meeting 
with Baseverie, or with somebody representing him, 


Lady Riversreade H7 

or having something to do with the business that 
took him to Riversreade Court. What business is 
it ? Has it anything to do with our business ? How¬ 
ever, there’s Lady Riversreade in that cab in front 
and we’ll just follow her, to find out where she goes 
—no doubt she’s bound for some swell West End 
hotel. And that knowledge will be useful, for I 
may want to see her in the morning—to ask a ques¬ 
tion or two.” 

“Somewhat early for that, isn’t it?” suggested 
Hetherwick. “Do we know enough?” 

“Depends on what you call enough,” replied 
Matherfield, drily. “What I know is this—That 
man Granett was poisoned. He had on him a 
brand new five pound note. That note I’ve traced 
as far as Vivian’s, where it was certainly paid to 
some customer in change on the very day before 
Granett and Hannaford’s deaths: Vivian’s is accord¬ 
ingly a place of interest. Now I hear of a mysterious 
man visiting Lady Riversreade—the man is tracked 
to Vivian’s—I myself see Lady Riversreade emerg¬ 
ing from Vivian’s. I think I must ask Lady Rivers¬ 
reade what she knows about Vivian’s and a certain 
Dr. Baseverie, and, incidentally, if she ever heard 
of a place called Sellithwaite and a police-superin¬ 
tendent named Hannaford? Eh? But we’re leav¬ 
ing the region of the fashionable hotels.” 


148 Black Money 

Hetherwick looked out of the window, what he 
saw seemed unfamiliar. 

“We’re going up Edgeware Road,” said Mather- 
field. He leaned out of the cab and gave some 
further instructions to the driver. “I don’t want to 
arouse any suspicion there in front,” he remarked, 
dropping into his seat again. “The probability is 
that she’s going to some private house, and I don’t 
want her to get any idea that she’s followed. Ah!— 
now we turn into Harrow Road!” 

The cab went away by Paddington Green, turned 
sharply at the Town Hall, and made up St. Mary’s 
Terrace. Presently it slowed down; proceeded still 
more slowly; passed the other cab which had come 
to a standstill in front of a block of high buildings : 
a few yards further on it stopped altogether. The 
driver got down from his seat and came to the door. 

“That tall lady!” he said confidentially. “Her 
as got into the other cab. She’s gone into St. Mary’s 
Mansions—just below.” 

“Flats, aren’t they?” asked Matherfield. 

“That’s it, sir,” answered the driver. He looked 
down the street. “Cab’s going off again, sir. Porter 
came out and paid.” 

“That looks as if she was going to stay here 
awhile,” remarked Matherfield in an undertone. 
“Well, we’ll get out, too, and take a look round.” 


149 


Lady Riversreade 

He paid and dismissed the driver, and crossing over 
to the opposite side of the roadway, pointed out 
to Hetherwick the block of flats into which Lady 
Riversreade had disappeared. ‘‘Big place,” he 
muttered. “Regular rabbit-warren. However, no 
other entrance than this—the old burial-ground’s at 
the back—no way out there, I do know that! So 
she can’t very well vanish that way.” 

“You’re going to wait, then?” asked Hetherwick. 

“I don’t believe in starting out on any game unless 
I see it through,” replied Matherfield. “Yes, I think 
we’ll wait. But there’s no necessity to hang around 
in the open street. I know this district—used to be 
at the police-station round the corner. You see all 
these houses on this side, Mr. Hetherwick?—they’re 
all lodging-houses, and I know most of their keepers. 
Wait here a minute, and I’ll soon get a room that 
we can watch from, without being seen ourselves.” 

He left Hetherwick standing under the shadow 
of a neighbouring high wall, and went a little way 
down the street: Hetherwick heard him open the 
gate of one of the little gardens and knock at a door. 
There was some little delay: Hetherwick passed the 
time in staring at the long rows of lighted windows 
in the flats opposite, wondering to which of them 
Lady Riversreade had gone and what she was doing 
there, at all. It was clear to him that this was some 


150 Black Money 

adventure connected with the mysterious Baseverie 
and with Vivian’s Night Club—but how?—and of 
what nature? 

Matherfield came back presently, cheerful and 
reassuring. 

“Come along, Mr. Hetherwick!” he whispered. 

“There’s a man here—lodging-house keeper— 
who knows me—we can have his front parlour 
window to watch from. Far better, that, than 
patrolling the street: we shall be comfortable there.” 

“You’re intent on watching, then?” said Hether¬ 
wick, as they moved off. 

“I’m not coming all that way for nothing,” replied 
Matherfield. “I’m going to follow her up till she 
settles for the night. That won’t be here—she’ll 
be off to some hotel or other before long.” 

But Matherfield’s prediction proved to be faulty. 
Time dragged slowly by in the stuffy and shabby 
little room in which he and Hetherwick took up a 
position and from the window of which Matherfield 
kept a constant watch on the entrance of the flats, 
exactly opposite. Midnight came and went, but 
nothing had happened. And at half-past twelve 
Hetherwick suggested that the game wasn’t worth 
the candle, and that he should prefer to depart. 

“You do as you like, Mr. Hetherwick,” said 
Matherfield, stifling a suspicious yawn. “I’m sick 


Lady Riversreade 151 

enough of it, too. But here I stop till she comes out 
—whether it's this side of breakfast or the other 
side!” 

“And what then?” asked Hetherwick, half-de- 
risively. 

“Then we’ll see—or I’ll see, if you’re going— 
where she goes next! Don’t believe in half meas¬ 
ures !” retorted Mather field. 

“Oh, I’ll see it out!” said Hetherwick. “After 
all, it’ll be daylight soon.” 

Daylight came over the housetops at four o’clock. 
They had seen nothing up to then. But at twenty 
minutes to five Matherfi’eld tugged his companion’s 
arm. Lady Riversreade, in a big ulster, travelling 
coat and carrying a small suit-case, was emerging, 
alone, from the opposite door. 


CHAPTER XII 


ALIAS MADAME LISTORELLE 

r 1 ’HE woman thus observed marched swiftly away 
A down the deserted street, in the direction of 
the Town Hall at the corner, and Matherfield, after 
one more searching look at her, dropped the slat of 
the Venetian blind through which he had been 
peeping, and turned on his companion. At the same 
instant he reached a hand for his overcoat and hat. 

“Now, Mr. Hetherwick!” he said sharply, “this 
has got to be a one-man job! There’ll be nothing 
extraordinary in one man going along the streets 
to catch an early morning train, but it would look a 
bit suspicious if two men went together on the same 
errand and the same track! I’m off after her— 
I’ll run her down!—I’m used to that sort of thing. 
You go to your chambers and get some sleep—I’ll 
look in later and tell you what news I have. Sharp’s 
the word, now!” 

He was out of the room and the house within the 
next few seconds, and Hetherwick, half-vexed with 
himself for having lingered there on a job which 
152 


Alias Madame Listorelle 


i53 


Matherfield thus unceremoniously took into his own 
hands, prepared to follow. Presently he went out 
into the shabby hall: the man of the house was just 
coming downstairs, stifling a big yawn. He smiled 
knowingly when he saw Hetherwick. 

“Matherfield gone, sir?” he enquired. “I heard 
the door close.” 

“He’s gone,” assented Hetherwick. “The person 
he wanted appeared suddenly, and he’s gone in 
pursuit.” 

The man, a smug-faced, easy-going sort of per¬ 
son, smiled again. 

“Rum doings these police have!” he remarked. 
“Queer job, watching all night through a window. 
I was just coming down to make you a cup of 
coffee,” he continued. “I’ll get you one in a few 
minutes, if you like. Or tea, now ?—perhaps you’d 
prefer tea?” 

“It’s very good of you,” said Hetherwick. “But 
to tell you the truth, I’d rather get home and to bed. 
Many thanks all the same.” 

Then out of sheer good-nature he slipped a 
treasury note into the man’s hand, and bidding him 
good-morning, went away. He, too, walked down 
the street in the direction taken by Lady Riversreade 
and her pursuer. But when he came to the bottom 
and emerged into Harrow Road he saw nothing of 


154 Black Money 

them, either to left or right. The road, however, 
was not deserted: there were already workmen go¬ 
ing to early morning tasks, and close by the corner 
of the Town Hall a roadman was busy with his 
broom. Hetherwick went up to him. 

“Did you see a lady, and then a gentleman come 
down here, from St. Mary’s Terrace just now?” 
he asked. “Tall people, both of them.” 

The man rested on his broom, half-turned, and 
pointed towards Paddington Bridge. 

“I see ’em, guv’nor,” he answered. “Tall lady, 
carrying a little portmantle. Gone along over the 
bridge yonder. Paddington Station way. And after 
her, Matherfield.” 

“Oh, you know him, do you ?” exclaimed Hether¬ 
wick, in surprise. 

The man jerked a thumb in the direction of the 
adjacent police-station. 

“Used to be a sergeant here, did Matherfield,” he 
replied. “I knows him, right enough! Once he run 
me in—me an’ a mate o’ mine—for bein’ a bit fes¬ 
tive, like. Five bob and costs that was. But I don’t 
bear him no grudge, not me! Thank ’ee, guv’nor.” 

Hetherwick left another tip behind him, and 
walked slowly off towards Edgeware Road. The 
Tube trains were just beginning to run, and he 
caught a South-bound one and went down to Char- 


Alias Madame Listorelle 


i55 


ing Cross and thence to the Temple. And at six 
o’clock he tumbled into bed, and slept soundly until, 
four hours later he heard Mapperley moving about 
in the adjoining room. 

Mapperley, whose job at Hetherwick’s was a good 
deal of a sinecure, was leisurely reading the news 
when his master entered. He laid the paper aside, 
and gave Hetherwick a knowing glance. 

“Got some more information last night,” he said. 
“About that chap I tracked the other day.” 

“How did you get it?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Put in a bit of time at Vivian’s,” answered 
Mapperley. “There’s a fellow there that I know. 
Clerk to the secretary—chap named Flowers. That 
man Baseverie has a share in the place—sort of 
director, I think.” 

“What time were you at Vivian’s?” enquired 
Hetherwick. “Late or early?” 

“Early—for them,” answered Mapperley. 

“Did you see the man there?” 

“I did. He was there all the time I was. In and 
about, all the time. But at first he was in what 
seemed to be serious conversation with a tall, hand¬ 
some woman. They sat talking in an alcove in the 
lounge there, some time. Then she went off— 
alone.” 

“Oh, you saw that, did you?” said Hetherwick. 


15 6 Black Money 

“Well, I may as well tell you, since you know what 
you do, that the woman was Lady Riversreade!” 

“Oh, I guessed that!” remarked Mapperley. “I 
figured in that, at once. But that wasn’t all. I 
found out more. That dead man, Hannaford— 
from what I heard from Flowers, I’ve no doubt 
whatever that Hannaford was at Vivian’s once, if 
not twice, during the two or three nights before his 
death. Anyway, Flowers recognised my description 
of him—which I’d got, of course, from you and the 
papers.” 

“Hannaford! There, eh?” exclaimed Hether- 
wick. “Alone?” 

“No—came in with this Baseverie. They don’t 
know him as Dr. Baseverie there, though. Plain 
Mister. I’m quite sure it was Hannaford who was 
with him.” 

“Did you get the exact dates—and times ?” asked 
Hetherwick. 

“I didn’t. Flowers couldn’t say that. But he 
remembered such a man.” 

“Well, that’s something,” said Hetherwick. He 
turned into another room and sat down to his break¬ 
fast, thinking. “Mapperley, come here!” he called 
presently. “Look here,” he went on as the clerk 
came in. “Since you know this Vivian place, go 
there again, to-night, and try to find out if that 


Alias Madame Listorelle 


i57 


friend of yours knows anything of a tall man who 
corresponds to the description of the man whom 
Hannaford was seen to meet at Victoria—you read 
Ledbitter’s account of that, given at the inquest?” 

“Yes,” replied Mapperley. “But of what value 
is it? None!—for practical purposes. He couldn’t 
even tell the shape of the man’s nose, nor the colour 
of his eyes! All he could tell was that he saw a 
man muffled in such a fashion that he saw next 
to nothing of his face, and that he was tall and 
smartly dressed. There are a few tens of thousands 
—scores perhaps—of tall, smartly dressed men in 
London!” 

“Never mind—enquire,” said Hetherwick. “And 
particularly if such a man has ever been seen in 
Baseverie’s company there.” 

He finished his breakfast, and then, instead of 
going down to the Central Criminal Court, after 
his usual habit, he hung about his chambers, 
expecting Matherfield. But Matherfield did not 
come, and at noon,. Hetherwick, impelled by a 
new idea, left a message for him in case he called, 
and went out. In pursuance of the idea, he jour¬ 
neyed once more to the regions of Paddington and 
knocked at the door of the house wherein he and 
Matherfield had kept watch on the flats opposite. 

The lodging-house keeper opened the door himself 


158 


Black Money 

and grinned on seeing Hetherwick. Hetherwick 
stepped inside and nodded at the door of the room 
which he had left only a few hours before. 

“I want a word or two with you,” he said. “In 
private.” 

“Nobody in here, sir,” replied the man. “Come 
in.” 

He closed the door on himself and his visitor 
and offered Hetherwick a chair. 

“I expected you’d be back during the day,” he 
said with a sly smile. “Either you or Matherfield. 
Or both!” 

“You haven’t seen him again?” asked Hetherwick. 

“No—he’s not been here,” replied the man. 

“Well, I wanted to ask you a question,” continued 
Hetherwick. “Perhaps two or three. To begin 
with have you lived here long?” 

“Been here since before these flats were built— 
and that’s a good many years ago: I can’t say ex¬ 
actly how many,” said the other, glancing at the 
big block opposite his window. “Twenty-two or 
three, anyway.” 

“Then I daresay you know most of the people 
hereabouts?” suggested Hetherwick. “By sight, at 
any rate.” 

The lodging-house keeper smiled and shook his 
head. 


Alias Madame Listorelle 


i59 


‘‘That would be a tall order, mister!” he answered. 
“There’s a few thousand of people packed into this 
bit of London. Of course, I do know a good many, 
close at hand. But if you’re a Londoner, you’ll 
know that Londoners keep themselves to themselves. 
May seem queer, but it’s a fact that I don’t know 
the names of my next-door neighbours on either 
side—though to be sure they’ve only been here a 
few years in either case.” 

“What I was suggesting,” said Hetherwick, “was 
that you probably knew by sight many of the people 
who live in the flats opposite your house.” 

“Oh, I know some of ’em by sight,” assented the 
man. “They’re a mixed lot over in those flats! A 
few old gentlemen—retired—two or three old ladies 
—and a fair lot of actresses—very popular with the 
stage is those flats. But of course it is only by sight 
—I don’t know any of ’em by name. Just see them 
going in and coming out, you know.” 

“Do you happen to know by sight a tall, hand¬ 
some woman who has a flat there?” asked Hether¬ 
wick. “A woman who’s likely to be very well 
dressed?” 

The lodging-house keeper, who was without his 
coat and had the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, 
scratched his elbows and looked thoughtful. 

“I think I do know the lady you mean,” he said 


160 Black Money 

at last. “Goes out with one o’ those pesky little 
poms—a black ’un—on a lead? That her?” 

“I don’t know anything about a dog,” replied 
Hetherwick. “The woman I mean is, as I said, tall, 
handsome, distinguished-looking, fair hair and a 
fresh complexion, and about forty, or so.” 

“I daresay that’s the one I’m thinking of,” said 
the man. “I have seen such a lady, now and then— 
not of late, though.” Then he gave Hetherwick a 
shrewd, enquiring glance. “You and Matherfield 
after her?” he asked. 

“Not exactly that,” answered Hetherwick. “What 
I want to find out—now—is her name. The name 
she’s known by here, anyway.” 

“I can soon settle that for you,” said the lodging- 
house keeper with alacrity. “I know the caretaker 
of those flats well enough—often have a talk with 
him. He’ll tell me anything—between ourselves. 
Now then let’s get it right—a tall, handsome lady, 
about forty, fair hair, fresh complexion, well dressed. 
That it, mister?” 

“You’ve got it,” said Hetherwick. 

“Then you wait here a bit, and I’ll slip across,” 
said the man. “All on the strict between ourselves, 
you know. As I said, the caretaker and me’s pals.” 

He left the room, and a moment later Hether¬ 
wick saw him cross the road and descend into the 


Alias Madame Listorelle 161 


basement of the flats. Within a quarter of an hour 
he was back, and evidently primed with news. 

“Soon settled that for you, mister!” he announced 
triumphantly. “He knew who you meant! The 
lady’s name is Madame Listorelle—here, I got him 
to write it down on a bit o’ paper, not being used 
to foreign names. He thinks she’s something to 
do with the stage. She’s the tenant of Flat 26. 
But he says that of late she’s seldom there—comes 
for a night or two; then away, maybe for months 
at a time. He saw her here yesterday, though—she 
hadn’t been there, he says, for a good bit. But there, 
it don’t signify to him whether she’s there or away— 
always punctual with her money, and that’s the main 
thing, ain’t it?” 

Hetherwick added to his largesse of the early 
morning, and went away. He was now convinced 
that Lady Riversreade, for some purpose of her 
own, kept up a flat in Paddington, visited it occasion¬ 
ally, and was known there as Madame Listorelle. 
How much was there in that, and what bearing had 
it on the problem he was endeavouring to solve ? 

He was thinking things over late that night when 
a pounding on his stairs and a knock on his outer 
door heralded the entrance of Matherfield, who, 
with an impressive look, flung himself into the 
nearest easy chair. 


J62 Black Money 

“For Heaven’s sake, Mr. Hetherwick, give me a 
drop of that whisky!” he exclaimed. “I’m dead 
beat—and disappointed, too! Such a day as I’ve 
had after that woman!—and what it all means the 
Lord only knows—I don’t!” 


CHAPTER XIII 


WHO WAS SHE? 

jLJETHERWICK helped his evidently far-spent 
visitor to a whisky and soda, and waited until 
he had taken a hearty pull at it. Then he resumed 
his own seat and took up his pipe. 

“I gather that you haven’t had a very successful 
day, Matherfield?” he suggested. “Hope it wasn’t 
exactly a wild-goose chase?” 

“That’s just about what it comes to, then!” ex¬ 
claimed Matherfield. “Anyway, after taking no end 
of trouble she got clear away, practically under my 
very nose! But I’ll tell you all about it—that’s 
what I dropped in for. When I went out of that 
house in St. Mary’s Terrace, she was just turning 
the corner to the right, Bishop’s Road way. Of 
course, I followed. She went over the bridge—the 
big railway bridge—and at the end turned down to 
Paddington Station. I concluded then that she was 
going up by some early morning train. She entered 
the station by the first-class booking office: I was 
not so many yards in her rear then. But instead of 
stopping there and taking a ticket, she went right 
163 


164 Black Money 

through, crossed the station to the arrival platform 
and signalled to a taxi-cab. In another minute she 
was in it, and off. Very luckily there was another 
cab close by. I hailed that and told the driver to 
keep the first cab in sight and follow it to wherever 
it went. So off we went again, on another pursuit l 
And it ended at another terminus—Waterloo!” 

“Going home, I suppose,” remarked Hetherwick, 
as Matherfield paused to take up his glass. “You 
can get to Dorking from Waterloo.” 

“She wasn’t going to any Dorking!” answered 
Matherfield. “I soon found that out. Early as it 
was, there were a lot of people at Waterloo, and 
when she went to the ticket office I contrived to be 
close behind her—close enough, at any rate, to over¬ 
hear anything she said. She asked for a first single 
to Southampton.” 

“Southampton!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “Um!” 

“Southampton!” repeated Matherfield. “First 
single for Southampton. She took the ticket and 
walked away, looking neither right nor left: she 
never glanced at me. Well, as I said yesterday, I 
don’t believe in starting out on anything unless I 
go clean through with it. So after a minute’s 
thought, I booked for Southampton—third. Then 
I went out and looked at the notice board. South¬ 
ampton, 5 : 4 o. It was then 5:25. So I went to the 


Who Was She ? 165 

telephone office, rang up our headquarters and told 
’em I was after something and they needn’t expect 
to see me all day. Then I bought a time-table and a 
newspaper or two at the bookstall, just opening, and 
went to the train. There were a lot of people travel¬ 
ling by it. The train hadn’t come up to the platform 
then: when it came down a minute or two later I 
watched her get in—she was good to spot because 
of her tall figure. I got into a smoker, a bit lower 
down—and in due course off we went, me wonder¬ 
ing, to tell you the truth, precisely why I was going! 
But I was going—wherever she went.” 

“Even out of the country?” asked Hetherwick 
with a smile. 

“Aye, I thought of that!” assented Matherfield. 
“She might be slinging her hook for anything I 
knew. That made me turn to the steamship news 
in the paper, and I saw then that the Tartaric was 
due to leave Southampton for New York about 2 
o’clock that very afternoon. Well, there were more 
improbable things than that she meant to go by it, 
for reasons of her own, especially if she really is 
the Mrs. Whittingham of the Sellithwaite affair, 
ten years ago. You see, I thought it out like this— 
granting she’s Mrs. Whittingham, that was, she’ll 
be astute enough to know that there’s no time-limit 
to a criminal prosecution in this country, and that 


166 Black Money 

she’s still liable to arrest, prosecution, and convic¬ 
tion : she’d probably know, too, that this Hannaford 
affair has somehow drawn fresh attention to her 
little matter, and that she’s in danger! Again, I’d 
been working out an idea about her and this man 
Baseverie. How do we know that Baseverie wasn t 
an accomplice of hers in that Sellithwaite fraud? 
In most cases of that sort the woman has an accom¬ 
plice, somewhere in the background—Baseverie may 
have been mixed up with her then. And now he may 
have information that has led him to warn her to 
make herself scarce, eh?” 

“There’s something in that, Matherfield,” admit¬ 
ted Hetherwick. “Yes—decidedly something.” 

“There may be a good deal,” affirmed Mather¬ 
field. “You see, we’ve let those newspaper chaps 
have a lot of information. I’m a believer in making 
use of the press—it’s a valuable aid, sometimes, 
perhaps generally, but there are other times when 
you can do too much of it—it’s a sort of giving 
valuable aid to the enemy. I don’t know whether 
we haven’t let those reporters know too much in 
this case. We’ve let ’em know for instance about 
the portrait found in Hannaford’s pocket-book, and 
about the sealed packet in which, we believe, was 
the secret of his patent—all that’s been in the papers, 
though, to be sure, they didn’t make much copy out 


Who Was She? 


167 


of it. Still, there was enough for anybody who fol¬ 
lowed the case closely. Now supposing that Base- 
verie was Mrs. Whittingham’s accomplice ten years 
ago, and that he’d read all this, and seen the repro¬ 
duction of the portrait—wouldn’t he see that she was 
in some danger and warn her ? I think it likely, and 
I wish we hadn’t been quite so free with our news 
for those paper chaps—I’m glad anyhow that there’s 
one thing I haven’t told ’em of—that medicine bot¬ 
tle found at Granett’s! There’s nobody but me, 
you, and the medical men know of that, so far.” 

“You think this woman—Lady Riversreade as she 
is, Mrs.Whittingham as she used to be—was making 
off to Southampton, and possibly further, on a hint 
from Baseverie?” said Hetherwick, ruminatively. 

“Put it this way,” replied Matherfield. “Of 
course you’ve got to assume a lot, but we can’t do 
without assuming things in this business. Lady 
Riversreade was formerly Mrs. Whittingham. Mrs. 
Whittingham did a clever bit of fraud at Sell- 
ithwaite, and got away with the swag. Baseverie was 
her accomplice. Now then, ten years later, Mrs. 
Whittingham has become my Lady Riversreade, a 
very wealthy woman. She’s suddenly visited by 
Baseverie at Riversreade Court, and is obviously 
upset by his first visit. He comes again. Three 
nights later she’s seen to come out of a club which 


Black Money 


168 

he frequents. She spends most of the night in a 
flat in a quiet part of London, and next morning 
slope’s off as early as five o’clock to a port 
Southampton. What inference is to be drawn? 
That her visit to Southampton has certainly some¬ 
thing to do with Baseverie’s visits to her and her 
visits to Vivian’s!” 

“I think there’s something in that, too,” said 
Hetherwick. “But—we’re on the way to Southamp¬ 
ton. Go on!” 

“Very good train, that,” continued Matherfield. 
“We got to Southampton just before eight—a 
minute or two late. I was wanting something to 
eat and drink by that time, and I was glad to see 
my lady turn into the refreshment room as soon as 
she left her carriage. So did I—I knew she’d never 
suspect a quiet, ordinary man like me: if she deigned 
to give me a glance—she’s a very haughty-looking 
woman, I observed—she’d only take me for a com¬ 
mercial traveller. And we were not so far off each 
other in that room—she sat at a little table, having 
some tea and so on: I was at the counter. Of course, 
I never showed that I was taking any notice of her 
—but I got in two or three good, comprehensive in¬ 
spections. Very good-looking, no doubt of it, Mr. 
Hetherwick—a woman that’s worn well! But of 
course you’ve seen that for yourself.” 


Who Was She? 


169 


“You must remember that I’ve only seen her 
twice,” remarked Hetherwick, with a laugh. “Once 
at Victoria, when Miss Hannaford pointed her out; 
once night before last, when it was by a poorish gas¬ 
light. But I'll take your word, Matherfield. Well, 
and what happened next ?” 

“Oh, she took her time over her tea and toast,” 
continued Matherfield. “Very leisured in all her 
movements, I assure you. At last she moved off— 
of course, I followed, casually and carelessly. Now, 
as you may be aware, Southampton West, where the 
train set us down, is a bit out of the town, and I 
expected her to take a cab. But she didn’t—she 
walked away from the Station. So did I—twenty 
or thirty yards in the rear. She took her time—it 
seemed to me she was purposely loitering. It struck 
me at last why—she was waiting until the business 
offices were open. I was right in that—as soon as 
the town clocks struck nine she quickened her pace 
and made a bee-line for her objective. And what do 
you think that was?” 

“No idea,” said Hetherwick. 

“White Star offices!” answered Matherfield. 
“Went straight there, and walked straight in! Of 
course, I waited outside, where she wouldn't see me 
when she came out again. She was in there about 
twenty minutes: when she came out she turned to 


170 


Black Money 

another part of the town. And near that old gate¬ 
way, or bar, or whatever it is that stands across the 
street, I lost her—altogether!” 

“Some exceptional reason, I should think, Mather¬ 
field,” remarked Hetherwick. “How was it?” 

“My own stupid fault!” growled Matherfield. 
“Took my eye off her in a particularly crowded 
p ar t—the town was beginning to get very busy. I 
just happened to let my attention be diverted—and 
she was gone! At first, I made certain she d gone 
into some shop. I looked into several—risky as 
that was—but I couldn’t find her. I hung about: 
no good. Then I came to the conclusion that she’d 
turned down one of the side streets or alleys or 
passages—there were several about there—and got 
clean away. And after hanging around a bit, and 
going up one street and down another—a poor job 
in our business at the best of times and all dependent 
on mere luck!—I decided to make a bold stroke and 
be sure of at any rate something.” 

“What, how?” asked Hetherwick. 

“I thought I’d find out what she’d gone to the 
White Star office for,” replied Matherfield. “Of 
course, I didn’t want to raise any suspicion against 
her under the circumstances. But I flatter myself 
I’m a bit of a diplomatist, and I laid my plans. I 
went in there, got hold of a clerk who was a likely- 


Who Was She? 


171 

looking chap for secret-keeping, told him who I was 
and showed my credentials, and asked him for the 
information I wanted. I got it. As luck would have 
it, my man had attended to her himself and re¬ 
membered her quite well,—of course, little more than 
an hour and a half had passed since she’d been in 
there.” 

“And—what had she been in for?” asked Hether- 
wick. “What did you hear?” 

Matherfield nodded significantly. 

“Just what I expected to hear,” he answered. 
“She’d booked a second-class passage for New York 
in the Tartaric sailing that afternoon, in the name 
of H. Cunningham. As soon as I found that out, 
I knew I should come across her again—there’d be 
no need to go raking the town for her. I ascertained 
that passengers would be allowed to go aboard from 
two o’clock: the boat would sail between five and six. 
So having once more admonished the clerk to 
secrecy and given him plausible excuses for my in¬ 
quisitiveness, I went off to relax a bit, and in due 
'time sat down to an early and comfortable lunch—a 
man must take his ease now and then, you know, 
Mr. Hetherwick.” 

“Exactly, Matherfield—I quite agree,” said 
Hetherwick. “But I daresay your brain was at 
work, all the same, while you ate and drank?” 


172 Black Money 

“It was, sir,” assented Matherfield. “Y'es I 
made my plans. I wasn’t going to New York, of 
course—that was out of the question. But I was go¬ 
ing to have speech with her. I decided that I d watch 
for her coming aboard the Tartaric being alone, 
she’d probably come early. I proposed to get her 
aside, accosting her, of course, as Lady Riversreade, 
tell her who I was and show my papers, and ask 
her if she would give me any information about a 
certain Dr. Cyprian Baseverie. I thought I’d see 
how she took that before asking anything further: 
if I saw that she was taken aback, confused, and 
especially if she gave me any prevaricating or elusive 
answer, I’d ask her straight out if before her mar¬ 
riage to the late Sir John Riversreade, she was the 
Mrs. Whittingham, who, some ten years ago, stayed 
for a time at the White Bear Hotel at Sellithwaite. 
And I practically made up my mind, too, that if she 
admitted that and I saw good cause for it, I’d detain 
her.” 

“You meant to go as far as that?” exclaimed 
Hetherwick. 

“I did! I should have been justified,” replied 
Matherfield. “However, that’s neither here nor 
there, for I never saw her! I was down at the point 
of departure well before two, and I assured myself 
that nobody had gone aboard the Tartaric up to that 


Who Was She? 


i 73 


time. I kept as sharp a lookout as any man with 
only one pair of eyes could, right away from ten 
minutes to two until five and twenty past five, when 
the boat sailed, but she never turned up. Of course, 
you’ll say that she must have slipped on unobserved 
by me, but I’m positive she didn’t. No, sir!—it’s 
my opinion that she thought better of it and didn’t 
go—forfeiting her passage-money, or a part of it, 
would be nothing to a woman of her means—or that 
she was frightened at the last minute of showing 
herself on that stage!” 

“Frightened! Why?” asked Hetherwick. 

Matherfield laughed significantly. 

“There were two or three of our men from Scot¬ 
land Yard about,” he answered. “I’m not aware of 
what they were after; I didn’t ask ’em. But I did 
ask them to give me a hand in looking out for a lady 
whom I fully described—which is why I’m dead 
certain she never went aboard. Now it may have 
been that she came down there: knew—you never 
know!—some of those chaps and—made herself 
scarce! Anyway—I never set eyes on her. Never, 
in fact, saw her again after I lost her in the morning. 
So—that’s where I am!” 

“You came back—defeated?” remarked Hether¬ 
wick. 

“Well, if you like to call it so,” admitted Mather- 


174 Black Money 

field. “Yes, I came back by the 7:38. Dog-tired 1 
But I’m not through with this yet, Mr. Hetherwick, 
and I want you to do something for me. This Miss 
Hannaford, now, is down at Riversreade Court. 
They’ll be on the telephone there, of course. I want 
you to ring her up early to-morrow morning, and 
ask her if she can meet you on important private 
business in Dorking town at noon—where shall we 
say ?” 

“White Horse would do,” suggested Hetherwick. 

“Very well—White Horse Hotel, at noon,” agreed 
Matherfield. “We’ll go down—for I’ll go with you 
—by the 10:10 from Victoria. Now, please be 
very careful about this, Mr. Hetherwick, when you 
telephone. Don’t say anything of any reason for 
going down to Dorking. Don’t on any account 
mention Lady Riversreade, in any way. Merely tell 
Miss Hannaford that you have urgent reasons for 
seeing her. And—fix it up!” 

“Oh, I can fix it up all right,” answered Hether¬ 
wick. “Miss Hannaford can easily drive down from 
Riversreade Court. But I don’t know what you 
want her for.” 

“Wait till morning,” replied Matherfield, with a 
knowing look. “You’ll see. I’ll meet you at 
Victoria at ten o’clock, sharp.” 

Hetherwick was still in ignorance of the reason of 


Who Was She? 


i 75 


MatherfielcTs desire to see Rhona when, just before 
noon next day, Matherfield and he walked up from 
Dorking Station into the High Street and made for 
the White Horse. Matherfield halted a few yards 
away from its door. 

“Let’s wait outside for her,” he said. “Till I’ve 
asked her a question or two, I don’t want to even 
run the risk of being overheard.” 

Rhona came along in a car a few minutes later, 
and seeing the two men advanced to meet them. 
Matherfield lost no time in getting to business. 

“Miss Hannaford,” he said, with a cautious look 
round and in a low voice, “just tell me—is Lady 
Riversreade up there at the Court? She is!” he 
continued, as Rhona nodded. “When did she come 
back then?” 

“Very early yesterday morning,” answered Rhona 
promptly. “By the 7145 from Victoria. She was up 
at the Court by 9130.” 

Matherfield turned an utterly perplexed face on 
Hetherwick. Then he stared at Rhona. 

“Up at Riversreade Court at 9:30 yesterday— 
Tuesday—morning!” he exclaimed. “Impossible! 
I saw her at Southampton at 9130 yesterday morning 
with my own eyes.” 

“I’m quite sure you didn’t!” replied Rhona, with a 
satirical laugh. “You’re under some queer mistaken 


176 


Black Money 


impression, Mr. Matherfield. Lady Riversreade was 
in her own house, here, with me at 9130 yesterday 
morning. That’s a fact that I can vouch for!” 

The two men looked at each other. Each seemed 
to be asking the other a silent question. But Mather¬ 
field suddenly voiced his, in tones full of wonder and 
of chagrin. 

'‘Then who on earth is that woman that I followed 
to Southampton?” 


CHAPTER XIV 


IS IT BLACKMAIL? 

IVAATHERFIELD’S question went without 
answer. Rhona, who had no idea of what he 
was talking about, turned a surprised and enquiring 
look on Hetherwick. And Hetherwick saw that the 
time had come for a lot of explanation. 

“Look here!” he said. “We’ve got to do some 
talking, and we can’t keep Miss Hannaford standing 
in the street. Come into the hotel—we’ll get a 
private room for lunch, and then we can discuss 
matters all to ourselves. You’re a bit puzzled by all 
this,” he continued a few minutes later, turning to 
Rhona when all three were safely closeted together 
and lunch had been ordered. “And no wonder! But 
I’d better tell you what Matherfield and I were after 
on Monday night, and what Matherfield was doing 
all yesterday. You see,” he concluded, after giving 
Rhona an epitomised account of the recent proceed¬ 
ings, “I was absolutely certain that the woman whom 
we saw coming out of Vivian’s on Monday night 
was the woman you pointed out to me on Sunday 
morning at Victoria as Lady Riversreade—she was 
1 77 


178 Black Money 

dressed in just the same things, I’m positive! in 
short, I’m convinced it was Lady Riversreade. Then, 
Matherfield and I are both equally sure that that was 
the same woman we saw coming out of St. Mary s 
Mansions shortly before five o’clock yesterday morn¬ 
ing, and whom Matherfield followed to Southamp¬ 
ton. Up to now, we’ve never had a doubt that it was 
Lady Riversreade—not a doubt!” 

“Well,” said Rhona, with an incredulous laugh. 
“I can’t say, of course, that you didn’t see Lady 
Riversreade come out of Vivian’s on Monday night. 
Lady Riversreade was certainly in town from Sun¬ 
day noon to yesterday morning, and she may have 
gone to Vivian’s on Monday night for purposes of 
her own: I known nothing about that. But I do 
know that she was not in Southampton yesterday, 
for, as I told you, she was back home, at Riversreade 
Court, about half-past nine in the morning, and 
she’s never left the house since. That’s plain fact!” 

“It’s beyond me, then!” exclaimed Matherfield. 
“And I say again, if that wasn’t Lady Riversreade 
that I tracked to Southampton, who was it? I’ll 
say more—if that really was Lady Riversreade that 
we saw coming out of Vivian’s and followed to 
Paddington, and if she wasn’t the woman who came 
out of those flats yesterday morning and that I went 
after, well, then, Lady Riversreade has a double!— 


Is It Blackmail? 179 

who lives in St. Mary’s Mansions! That’s about 
it!” 

“As regards that,” remarked Hetherwick. “I 
didn’t tell you last night, Matherfield, that I went 
back yesterday to that house from which we watched, 
and made some cautious enquiries about the tall, 
handsome woman who has a flat opposite. I got 
some information. The woman whom we followed 
there, and whom you were running after yesterday 
is known there as a Madame Listorelle. She’s very 
little at her flat, though punctual with its rent. She’s 
sometimes away altogether for long periods—in 
fact, she’s rarely seen there. And she’s believed to 
be connected with the stage. The caretaker, who 
supplied this information, saw her at the flat on 
Monday.” 

Matherfield smacked one hand on the open palm 
of the other. 

“It’s an alias!” he exclaimed. “Bet your stars 
she’s Lady Riversreade! Away from her flat for 
long periods? Of course!—because she’s down here, 
at her big house. Keeps that flat up for some 
purpose of her own, and calls herself—what it it? 
-—sounds French.” 

“But supposing that’s so,” remarked Hetherwick, 
with a sly glance at Rhona. “It’s utterly impossible 
that Lady Riversreade could be at Riversreade Court 


i8o Black Money 

yesterday and in Southampton at the same time! 
Come, now!” 

“Well, I tell you it beats me!” muttered Mather- 
field. “I know what I saw! If there’s anything 
gone wrong, it’s your fault, Mr. Hetherwick! I 
don’t know this Lady Riversreade! All I know is 
that you said the woman we saw coming out of 
that club was Lady Riversreade. That, sir, is the 
woman I followed!” 

“The woman I saw coming out of Vivian’s was 
the woman pointed out to me by Miss Hannaford as 
Lady Riversreade,” affirmed Hetherwick quietly. 
“That’s certain! But-” 

He was interrupted at this stage by the arrival of 
lunch. Nothing more was said until all three were 
seated and the waiter had been sent away. Then 
Rhona looked at her companions and smiled. 

“You both seem to have arrived at a very promis¬ 
ing stage!” she said. “At first I thought it a regular 
impasse, but-” 

“Isn’t it? asked Hetherwick. “At present I 
don’t see any way through or over it!” 

“Oh, I think you’re getting towards something!” 
she retorted. “All these things, puzzling as they 
are, are better than nothing. I’ve got some news, 
too—if you’re sure there are no eavesdroppers 
about.” 



Is It Blackmail ? 


181 


“Oh, we’re all right!” said Hetherwick. “Good 
stout old doors, these—close-fitting. What next?” 

Rhona leaned across the table a little and lowered 
her voice. 

“There was a sort of row at the Court; at least, 
at the Home, yesterday,” she said. “With that man 
Baseverie!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “That’s interesting! 
Tell about it.” 

“Well, I told you that Lady Riversreade arrived 
from London yesterday morning about nine-thirty,” 
continued Rhona. “Major Penteney arrived with 
her.” 

“Who’s Major Penteney?” demanded Mather- 
field. 

“He’s a retired Army man who’s greatly in¬ 
terested in Lady Riversreade’s Home, and looks 
after its affairs in London,” replied Hetherwick. 
“And Miss Hannaford thinks he’s in love with the 
foundress. I’ve seen him—saw him with Lady 
Riversreade on Sunday. Yes,” he added, turning 
to Rhona. “Major Penteney came back with her? 
Go on.” 

“As soon as they arrived—I saw them come, from 
my office window—they came across to the Home,” 
continued Rhona. “It struck me that they both 
looked unusually grave and serious. They talked to 


182 Black Money 

me for a few minutes on business matters: then 
they went into Lady Riversreade’s private office. 
They were there for some little time; then Lady 
Riversreade came out and went away; I saw her 
cross to the Court. Presently Major Penteney came 
to me, and told me that he wanted to have a little 
private talk with me. He said—as near as I can 

remember—‘Miss Featherstone- 

Matherfield looked up quickly from his plate. 
“Eh?” he said. “Miss—Featherstone?” 

“That's the name Miss Hannaford’s known by— 
there,” said Hetherwick. “Her mother’s name. I 
told you before, you know.” 

“True, true!” assented Matherfield, with a groan. 
“You did!—I remember now. I’m muddled—with 
yesterday’s affair.” 

“ ‘Miss Featherstone,’ ” Rhona went on—“ ‘I be¬ 
lieve you’re aware that Lady Riversreade has lately 
been visited—twice—by a man who calls himself 
Dr. Cyprian Baseverie?’ ” 

“ ‘Yes,’ ” I answered, ‘I am, Major Penteney. I 
saw Dr. Baseverie on both occasions.’ ‘Well,’ he 
said—T don’t suppose you were at all impressed by 
him?’ ‘Not at all impressed, Major Penteney,’ I 
replied, ‘except very unfavourably.’ ‘Didn’t like his 
looks, eh?’ he asked with a smile. ‘Do you?’ I 
enquired. ‘I’ve never seen the fellow,’ he answered. 



Is It Blackmail ? 


183 


‘But I expect to—this very morning. That’s what 
I want to talk to you about. I believe he’ll turn up 
here about noon—as, I understand, he did before, 
wanting, of course, to see Lady Riversreade. I 
want you to tell the doorkeeper, Mitchell, to bring 
him straight in when he comes, and Mitchell is not 
to say that Lady Riversreade is not in—she won’t 
be in—he’s to admit him immediately; and you, if 
you please, are to show him straight into the private 
office. Instead of finding Lady Riversreade there, 
he’ll find—me. Is that clear?’ ‘Perfectly clear, 
Major Penteney,’ I replied. ‘I’ll see to it.’ ‘Well, 
there’s something else,’ he said. ‘After I have had 
a little plain-spoken talk with this fellow, I shall ring 
the bell. I want you to come in and to bring Mitchell 
with you. And—that’s all, at present. You under¬ 
stand?’ T understand, Major Penteney,’ I answered. 
‘I’ll see to it. But as you’ve never seen this man 
there’s one thing I’d like to say to you—he’s the 
sort of man who looks as if he might be dangerous.’ 
He smiled at that. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I’m pre¬ 
pared for that, Miss Featherstone. You show him 
right in.’ ” 

Rhona paused for a moment, to attend to the 
contents of her plate. But Hetherwick’s knife and 
fork had become idle; so had Matherfield’s: each 
man, it was plain, was becoming absorbed. And 


184 Black Money 

Matherfield suddenly brightened and gave Hether- 
wick an unmistakable wink. 

“Good!—good!—good!” he muttered, with some- 
thing like a chuckle. “I’m beginning to see a bit of 
daylight! Excellent!—when you’re ready, Miss 
F eather stone- 

“Well/’ continued Rhona, after a few minutes’ 
pause, “about noon, Dr. Cyprian Baseverie drove 
up. I had already given Mitchell his instructions, 
and he brought Baseverie straight into my office. 
Baseverie was evidently in the very best of spirits— 
he bowed and grimaced at sight of me as if he 
expected to find me dying to see him. I made no 
answer to his flowery greetings: I just got up, 
ushered him to the door of the private room and 
closed it after him as he stepped across the thresh¬ 
old. Then I laughed—he wouldn’t see who was 
awaiting him until he got right into the room, and 
I’d already gathered from Major Penteney that his 
reception couldn’t be exactly pleasant or agreeable.” 

Matherfield rubbed his hands together. 

“Good!—good!” he chuckled. “Wish I’d been in 
that room!” 

“It wasn’t long before I was there, Mr. Mather¬ 
field,” said Rhona. “I was, of course, tremendously 
curious to know what was going on there, but the 
door fits closely, and I heard nothing—no angry 


Is It Blackmail ? 


185 


voices or anything. However, in less than ten 
minutes the bell rang, sharply. I called Mitchell— 
he’s a big, strapping, very determined-looking ex- 
Guardsman—and in we went. I took everything in 
at a glance. Major Penteney sat at Lady Rivers- 
reade’s desk. On the blotting-pad, his right hand 
close to it, lay a revolver-” 

“Hah!” exclaimed Matherfield. “To be sure! 
Just so! Fine!” 

“Opposite the desk stood Baseverie, staring first 
at Major Penteney, then at us. It’s difficult for me 
to describe how he looked. I think the principal 
expression on his face was one of intense surprise.” 

“Surprise?” ejaculated Iietherwick. 

“Surprise! Astonishment! He looked like a man 
who has just heard something that he has believed 
it impossible to hear. But there was also such a 
look of anger and rage!—well, if Major Penteney 
hadn’t had that revolver close to his finger-ends, and 
if Mitchell hadn’t been there, I should have screamed 
and run. However, it was not I who was to do the 
running. As soon as Mitchell and I entered, Major 
Penteney spoke—very quietly. He nodded at 
Baseverie. ‘Miss Featherstone and you, Mitchell— 
you see this man? If ever he comes here again, 
you, Mitchell, will deny him entrance, and you, 
Miss Featherstone, on hearing from Mitchell that 



i86 


Black Money 


he’s here, will telephone for the police, and, if 
he hangs about, will give him in charge.’ Then he 
turned to Baseverie. ‘Now, my man!’ he continued, 
pointing to the door. ‘You get out—quick! Go!’ 
Of course, I looked at Baseverie. He stood, staring, 
almost incredulously, at Major Penteney. It seemed 
to me that he could scarcely believe his ears—he gave 
me the impression of being unable to credit that he 
could be so treated. But he was also livid with 
anger. His fingers worked; his eyes blazed: it was 
dreadful to see his lips. He got out some words at 
last-” 

“Give me the exact ones, if you can,” interrupted 
Matherfield. 

“I can—I’m not likely to forget them,” said 
Rhona. “He said—‘What!—you defy me, know¬ 
ing what I know ?—knowing what I know!’ ” 

“ ‘Knowing what I know!’ ” muttered Mather¬ 
field. “ ‘Knowing what he knew!’ Urn!—and 
then?” 

“Then Major Penteney just pointed to the door. 
‘Get out, I tell you!’ he said. ‘And look in the 
papers to-night. Be off!’ ” 

“Look in the papers to-night, eh?” said Mather¬ 
field. “Urn—urn! And then, I suppose, he went?” 

“He went without another word, then,” assented 
Rhona. “Mitchell escorted him out antj^saw him 



Is It Blackmail ? 


187 


off. Major Penteney looked at me when he’d gone. 
‘There, Miss Featherstonel’ he said. ‘You’ve seen 
one of the biggest scoundrels in London—or in 
Europe. Let’s hope you’ll never see him again, that 
that’s the end of him, here. I think he’s had his 
lesson!’ I made no answer—but I was jolly glad to 
see Baseverie’s car scooting away down the drive!” 

Matherfield picked up the tankard of ale at his 
side and took a hearty pull at its contents. He set 
the tankard down again with an emphatic bang. 

“I know what this job is!” he exclaimed tri¬ 
umphantly. “Blackmail!” 

“Just so!” agreed Hetherwick. “I’ve been think¬ 
ing that for the last ten minutes. Baseverie has been 
endeavouring to blackmail Lady Riversreade. But 
that’s not our affair, you know. What we’re after 
is the solving of the mystery surrounding Hanna- 
ford’s death. And—does this look likely to fit in 
anywhere?” 

“I should say it decidedly does look likely!” 
answered Matherfield. “In my opinion, it’s all of 
a piece; at least, it’s a piece out of a piece, one of 
many pieces, like a puzzle. The thing is to put these 
pieces together. And there are two things we can 
try to do at once. First, find out more about this man 
Baseverie: the other, get hold of more informa¬ 
tion about the lady in St. Mary’s Mansions.” 


188 Black Money 

“What about approaching Lady Riversreade for 
information?—or Major Penteney?” suggested 
Hetherwick. 

“Yes—why don’t you?” said Rhona, almost 
eagerly. “Do!—I’m a bit tired of being there as 
Miss Featherstone—I want to tell Lady Riversreade 
the truth, and all the whys and wherefores of it.” 

But Matherfield shook his head. The time for 
that was not yet, he ‘declared; let them wait awhile. 
And after more conversation, he and Hetherwick 
returned to London. 

The late afternoon editions of the evening papers 
were just out when they reached Victoria. Mather¬ 
field snatched one up: a moment later he thrust it 
before Hetherwick, pointing to some big, black 
capitals. 

“Good God!” he exclaimed. “Look at that!” 

Hetherwick looked, and gasped his astonishment 
at what he read. 


MURDER OF ROBERT HANNAFORD. 
FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS REWARD 


CHAPTER XV 


REVELATIONS 


IIETHERWICK turned on his companion with a 
look that was both questioning and surprised. 
“This is probably—no, certainly!—what Penteney 
referred to when he told Baseverie to look in the 
newspapers!” he said. “That was yesterday—it 
must have been in last night’s papers and this morn¬ 
ing’s. I saw neither.” 

“Wait!” said Matherfield. He hurried back to 
the bookstall and returned with an armful of papers, 
turning the topmost over as he came. “It’s here— 
and here!” he continued. “Let’s get a quiet corner 
somewhere and look this thing carefully over.” 

“Come into a waiting-room, then,” said Hether- 
wick. “Odd!” he muttered, as they turned away. 
“Who should offer a reward—like that, too!—who 
isn’t concerned in the case?” 

“How do we know who isn’t concerned in the 
case ?” exclaimed Matherfield. “Somebody evidently 
is!—somebody who can not only afford to offer five 
thousand pounds but isn’t afraid to spend no end in 
advertising. Look at that—and that—and that,” 
189 


190 Black Money 

he went on, turning over his purchases rapidly. “It’s 
in every paper in London!” 

“Let's read it carefully,” said Hetherwick. He 
spread out one of the newspapers on the waiting- 
room table and muttered the wording of the adver¬ 
tisement while Matherfield looked over his shoulder. 
“Mysterious, very!” he concluded. “What’s it 
mean?” 

But Matherfield was re-reading the advertisement. 


Whereas Robert Hannaford, formerly Superin¬ 
tendent of Police at Sellithwaite, Yorkshire, died 
suddenly in an Underground Railway train, near 
Charing Cross (Embankment) Station about 
1.15 a.m. on March 19th last, and expert medical 
investigation has proved that he was poisoned, 
and there is evidence to warrant the belief that 
the poison was administered by some person or 
persons with intent to cause his death, this is 
to give notice that the above-mentioned sum of 
Five Thousand Pounds will be paid to anyone 
first giving information which will lead to the 
arrest and conviction of the person or persons 
concerned in administering the said poison and 
that such information should be given to' the 
undersigned who will pay the said reward in ac¬ 
cordance with the above-stated conditions. 

Penteney, Blenkinsop, & Penteney, 

April 22nd, I9 2<>. Solicitors. 

833, Lincoln’s Inn Field, 

London: W. C. 


Revelations 191 

Matherfield pointed to the names of the signa¬ 
tories. 

“Penteney,” he remarked—“That’s the name of 
the man Miss Hannaford mentioned as having given 
Baseverie his dismissal.” 

“Of course—Major Penteney,” said Hetherwick. 
“Probably a junior partner in the firm. I know 
their names, but not much about them.” 

“I thought he was a soldier,” said Matherfield. 
“Major she called him.” 

“Very likely a Territorial officer,” replied Hether¬ 
wick. “Anyway, it’s very plain what this is, Mather¬ 
field, considering all we know. This advertisement 
has been issued on behalf of Lady Riversreade. Pen¬ 
teney, Blenkinsop, & Penteney are no doubt her 
solicitors. But—why ?” 

“Aye, why ?” exclaimed Matherfield. “That’s just 
what beats me! What interest has she in Hanna- 
ford’s murder? Why should she want to bring his 
murderer to justice? If his granddaughter had 
offered say a hundred pounds for information I 
could understand it—she’s his flesh and blood. But 
Lady Riversreade!—Why, if she’s really the woman 
who was once Mrs. Whittingham, you’d have 
thought she’d have been rather glad to know that 
Hannaford was out of the way! And after all, this 
mayn’t come from her.” 


192 


Black Money 


‘Tm absolutely certain it does/’ asserted Hether- 
wick. “Putting everything together, what other con¬ 
clusion can we come to ? It comes from Lady Rivers- 
reade—and her adviser, Major Penteney—and it’s 
something to do with that man Baseverie. But— 
what?” 

“It ought to be looked into,” muttered Mather- 
field. “They’ve never approached us on the matter. 
It’s a purely voluntary offer on their part. They’ve 
left the police clean out.” 

“Well, I make a suggestion,” said Hetherwick. 
“I think you and I had better call at Penteney’s to¬ 
morrow morning. We can tell them something—- 
perhaps they’ll tell us something. Anyway, it’s a 
foolish thing to divide forces—we’d far better unite 
in a common effort.” 

“Um!” replied Matherfield, doubtfully. “But 
these lawyer chaps—they’ve generally got something 
up their sleeves—some card that they want to play 
at their own moment. However, we can try ’em.” 

“Meet me at the south-east corner of Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields at half-past-ten to-morrow morning,” 
said Hetherwick. “Penteney’s offices are close by. 
We’ll go together—and ask them straight out what 
this advertisement means.” 

“All right—but if they won’t tell?” suggested 
Matherfield. 


Revelations 


i93 


“Then, in that case, we’ll introduce Lady Rivers- 
reade’s name, and ask them if Lady Riversreade 
of Riversreade Court and Mrs. Whittingham, for- 
merely of Sellithwaite, are one and the same person,” 
replied Hetherwick. “Come!—I think we can show 
them that we already know a good deal.” 

“We’ve certainly a card or two to play,” admitted 
Matherfield. “All right, Mr. Hetherwick! To-mor¬ 
row morning, then, as you suggest.” 

He was waiting at the appointed place when 
Hetherwick hurried up next morning: Hetherwick 
immediately turned him down the lower side of the 
Fields. 

“I’ve found out something about these people 
we’re going to see,” he said. “My clerk Mapperley 
told me a bit—he’s a sort of walking encyclopedia. 
Old, highly respectable firm, this. Penteney, senior, 
is retired: the firm is now really Blenkinsop & Pen¬ 
teney junior. And Penteney junior is the Major 
Penteney who takes such an interest in Lady Rivers- 
reade’s Home—and in Lady Riversreade. As I sug¬ 
gested last night, he was a Territorial officer—so now 
he’s back at his own job. Now then, Matherfield, 
let’s arrange our plan of campaign. You, of course, 
have your official credentials—I’m a deeply interested 
person, the man who chanced to witness Hanna- 
ford’s death. I think you’d better be spokesman.” 


13 


194 Black Money 

“Well, you’ll come in when wanted?” suggested 
Matherfield. “You’re better used to lawyers than I 
am, being one yourself.” 

“I fear my acquaintance with solicitors is so far 
extremely limited, Matherfield,” replied Hetherwick 
with a laugh. “I have seen a brief I—but only occa¬ 
sionally. However, here we are at 853, and a solid 
and sombre old house it is.” 

The two callers had to wait for some time before 
any apparent notice was taken of their cards by the 
persons to whom they had been sent in. Matherfield 
was beginning to chafe when, at last, an elderly clerk 
conducted them to an inner room wherein one cold- 
eyed, immobile-faced man sat at a desk, while an¬ 
other, scarcely less stern in appearance, in whom 
Hetherwick immediately recognised the Major Pen- 
tefney pointed out by Rhona, stood, hands in pockets, 
on the hearthrug. Each stared silently at the two 
callers; the man at the desk pointed to chairs on 
either side his fortress. He looked at Matherfield. 

“Yes?” he asked. 

“Mr. Blenkinsop, I presume?” began Matherfield, 
with a polite bow to the desk. “And Mr. Penteney ?” 
with another to the hearthrug. 

“Just so,” agreed Blenkinsop. “Precisely! Yes?” 

“You have my card, gentlemen, and so you know 
who I am,” continued Matherfield. “The police-” 



Revelations 


i95 


“A moment,” interrupted Blenkinsop. He picked 
up Hetherwick’s card and glanced from it to its 
presenter. “Mr. Guy Hetherwick,” he remarked. 
“Does Mr. Hetherwick also call on behalf of the 
police? Because—” he added, with a dry smile—“I 
think I’ve seen Mr. Hetherwick in wig and gown.” 

“I am the man who was present at Robert Hanna- 
ford’s death,” said Hetherwick. “If you are con¬ 
versant with the case-” 

“Quite!—every detail!” said Blenkinsop. 

“Then you know what I saw, and what evidence 
I gave at the inquest,” continued Hetherwick. “I 
have followed up the case ever since—and that’s why 
I am here.” 

“Not as amicus curicc, then?” remarked Blenkin¬ 
sop, with a still dryer smile. “You’re not a disin¬ 
terested adviser. I see! And Mr. Matherfield— 
why is he here?” 

“I was saying, Mr. Blenkinsop, that the police 
have seen the advertisement signed by your firm, 
offering five thousand pounds reward—et cetera,” 
answered Matherfield. “Now, I have this Hanna- 
ford case in hand, and I can assure you I’ve done a 
lot of work at it. So, in his way, has Mr. Hether¬ 
wick. We’re convinced that Hannaford was mur¬ 
dered by poison, and that whoever poisoned him, 
also poisoned the man Granett at the same time. 



196 Black Money 

Now, as either you, or some person—a client, I sup¬ 
pose—behind you, is so much concerned in bringing 
Hannaford’s murderer to justice as to offer a big 
sum for necessary information, we think you must 
know a great deal, and I suggest to you, gentlemen, 
that you ought to place your knowledge at our dis¬ 
posal. I hope my suggestion is welcome, gentle¬ 
men ?” 

Blenkinsop drummed the blotting-pad before him 
with the tips of his fingers and his face became more 
inscrutable than ever: as for Penteney he maintained 
the same attitude which he had preserved ever since 
the visitors entered the room, lounging against the 
mantelpiece, hands in pockets, and his eyes alter¬ 
nately fixed on either Hetherwick or Matherfield. 
There was a brief silence—at last Blenkinsop spoke, 
abruptly: 

“I don’t think we have anything to say,” he said. 
“What we have to say has been said already in the 
advertisement. We shall pay the offered reward to 
the person who gives satisfactory information. I 
don’t think that interferes with the police work.” 

“That doesn’t help me much, Mr. Blenkinsop,” 
protested Matherfield. “You, or your client, must 
know more than that! There must be good reasons 
why your client should offer such a big sum as re¬ 
ward. I think we ought to know—more.” 


Revelations 


197 


“I am not prepared to tell you more,” answered 
Blenkinsop. “Except that if we get the information 
which we think we shall get, we shall not be slow to 
hand it over to the police authorities.” 

“That might be too late,” urged Matherfield. 
“This is an intricate case—there are a good many 
wheels within wheels.” Then, interpreting a glance 
which he had just received from Hetherwick as a 
signal to go further, he added: “We know what a 
lot of wheels there are!—no one better. For example, 
gentlemen, there is the curious fashion in which this 
affair is mixed up with Lady Riversreade!” 

In spite of their evidently habitual practice of 
self-control, the two solicitors could not repress signs 
of astonishment. Blenkinsop’s face fell: Penteney 
started out of his lounging attitude and stood up¬ 
right. And for the first time he spoke. 

“What do you know about Lady Riversreade ?” 
he demanded. 

“A good deal, sir, but not so much as I intend to 
know,” answered Matherfield, firmly. “But I do 
know this—that Hanna ford, just previous to his 
sudden death, was in possession of a portrait of 
Lady Riversreade, and believed her to be identical 
with a certain Mrs. Whittingham who was through 
his hands on a charge of fraud, ten years ago, at 
Sellithwaite, in Yorkshire. I, too, believe that this 


198 Black Money 

Mrs. Whittingham is now Lady Riversreade, and I 
may tell you that I’m in full possession of all the 
facts relating to the Sellithwaite affair—an affair of 
obtaining a diamond necklace, worth about four 
thousand pounds by means of a worthless cheque, 
and-” 

Blenkinsop suddenly rose from his chair, holding 
up a hand. 

“A moment, if you please!” he said. Penteney, 
he continued, turning to his partner, a word with 
you in your room.” 

Matherfield glanced triumphantly after the retreat- 
ing pair, and laughed when a door had closed on 
them. 

“That’s got ’em, Mr. Hetherwick!” he exclaimed. 
“They see that we know more than they reckoned 
for. In some way or other, it strikes me, this 
advertisement is a piece of bluff!” 

“Bluff!” said Hetherwick. “What do you mean ?” 

“What I say,” answered Matherfield. “Bluff! 
Done to prevent somebody from bringing up that 
old Sellithwaite affair. Lay you a thousand to one it 
is. You’ll see these two lawyers will be more com¬ 
municative when they come back. Now they shall 
talk—and we’ll listen!” 

“If you have to do any more talking, Matherfield,” 
said Hetherwick, “keep Miss Hannaford’s name out 


Revelations 


199 


of it. She’s in a rather awkward position. She went 
there, of course, to find out what she could, and the 
result’s been that she’s taken a fancy to Lady Rivers- 
reade, got a genuine interest in the work there, and 
wants to stop. Bit of a bother, all that, and it’ll 
need some straightening out. Anyway, keep her 
name out of it, here.” 

“As I say, sir, when these chaps come back to us, 
they’ll do the talking!” answered Matherfield, with 
a chuckle. “You’ll see! If you want to keep Miss 
Hannaford’s name, so do they want to keep Lady 
Riversreade’s name out—I know the signs!” 

Blenkinsop and Penteney suddenly came back and 
seated themselves: Blenkinsop at his desk and 
Penteney close by. And Blenkinsop immediately 
turned to his callers. His manner had changed: he 
looked now like a man who is anxious to get a 
settlement of a difficult question. 

“We have decided to talk freely to you,” he said at 
once. “That means, to tell you everything we know 
about this matter. You, Mr. Matherfield, as re¬ 
presenting the police, will of course treat our com¬ 
munication confidentially: I needn’t ask you, Mr. 
Hetherwick, to regard all that’s said here as—you 
know! Now, to begin with—just get one fact, an 
absolutely irrefutable fact, into your minds at 
once. Lady Riversreade is not the woman who was 


200 Black Money 

known as Mrs. Whittingham at Sellithwaite ten 
years ago, nor did Hannaford believe that she was, 
either!” 

“What?” exclaimed Matherfield. “But—” he 
turned to Hetherwick. “You hear that?” he went 
on. “Why, we know-” 

“Let Mr. Blenkinsop go on,” said Hetherwick, 
quietly. “He’s explaining, I think.” 

“Just so,” agreed Blenkinsop. “And I’m begin¬ 
ning by endeavouring to clear away a few mistaken 
ideas from your minds. Lady Riversreade is not 
Mrs. Whictingham. Hannaford did not think she 
was Mrs. Whittingham. It was not Lady Rivers- 
reade’s portrait that Hannaford cut out of the 
paper.” 

Hetherwick could not repress a start at that. 

“Whose was it, then?” he demanded. “For I 
certainly believed it was!” 

Blenkinsop stooped and drew out a drawer from 
his desk. From a bundle of documents he produced 
a newspaper, carefully folded and labelled. Opening 
this he laid it before the two visitors, pointing to a 
picture marked with blue pencil. And Hetherwick 
at once saw that here was a duplicate of the portrait 
in his own pocket-book. But there was this im¬ 
portant difference—while Hannaford had cut away 
the lettering under his picture, it was there in the one 


Revelations 


201 


which Blenkinsop exhibited. He started again as 
he read it. Madame Anita Listorelle. 

“That’s the picture which Hannaford cut out of 
the paper,” said Blenkinsop. “It is not that of 
Lady Riversreade.” 

“Then it’s that of a woman who’s her double!” 
exclaimed Matherfield. “I’ll lay anything that if 
you asked a hundred men who’ve seen Lady Rivers¬ 
reade if that’s her picture they’d swear it is!” 

“I see,” said Hetherwick, disregarding his com¬ 
panion’s outburst, “that this purports to be a portrait 
of a Madame Listorelle, who is described in the 
accompanying letter-press as a famous connoisseur 
of precious stones. Now, in relation to what we’re 
discussing, may I ask a plain question—who is 
Madame Listorelle?” 

Blenkinsop smiled—oracularly. 

“Madame Listorelle,” he replied—“is the twin- 
sister of Lady Riversreade!” 


CHAPTER XVI 


STILL MORE 


HIS sudden announcement, not altogether un- 



A expected by Hetherwick as a result of the last 
few minutes’ proceedings, seemed to strike Mather- 
field with all the force of a lightning-like illumina¬ 
tion. His mouth opened: his eyes widened: he 
turned on Hetherwick as if having been lost for 
awhile in a baffling maze, he had suddenly seen a way 
pointed out to him. 

“Oh, that’s it, is it!” he exclaimed. “A twin- 
sister, eh? Then—but go on, Mr. Blenkinsop, I’m 
beginning to see things.” 

“The matter is doubtless puzzling—to outsiders,” 
responded Blenkinsop. “To clear it up, I shall have 
to go into some family history. Lady Riversreade 
and Madame Listorelle are, I repeat, twin-sisters. 
They are the daughters of a man who in his time was 
captain of various merchant ships—the old sailing 
ships—and who knocked about the world a good 
deal. He married an American woman, and his 
two daughters were born in Galveston, Texas. They 


202 


Still More 


203 


were educated in America—but there’s no need to 
go into the particulars of their early lives-” 

“There’s a certain particular that I should like to 
have some information about, if you please,” inter¬ 
rupted Hetherwick. “The Mrs. Whittingham who 
was at Sellithwaite ten years ago had the figure of 
a snake tattoed round a wrist, in various colours. 
She wore a black velvet band to cover it. Now-” 

Blenkinsop turned to his partner with a smile. 

“I thought that would come up,” he said. “Well, 
Mr. Hetherwick, if you want to know about that 
matter, both sisters are tatooed in the same fashion. 
That was a bit of work of the old sea-dog, their 
father—a fancy, and a very foolish one, of his. He 
had the children tatooed in that way when they were 
quite young, much to their disgust when they grew 
older. Each lady wears a covering velvet armlet— 
as I know.” 

“Proceed if you please,” said Hetherwick. “That’s 
cleared up!” 

“I gather that you’ve been making enquiries on 
your own account,” observed Blenkinsop. “Well, 
since we’re determined to tell you everything, we’ll 
be as good as our word. So let’s come to the 
Sellithwaite affair. You’ve probably heard only 
one version—you may have got it from Hannaford: 
you may have got it from old newspapers; you may 




204 Black Money 

have got it on the spot—it’s immaterial to us. But 
you haven’t heard the version of the lady who was 
then Mrs. Whittingham. That puts a rather dif¬ 
ferent complexion on things. For reasons of her own 
with which we’ve nothing to do, Mrs. Whittingham 
—her proper and legal name at that time—stayed 
at Sellithwaite for a while. She had various trans¬ 
actions with a jeweller there; eventually she bought 
from him a diamond necklace at a price—£3,900. 
She gave him a cheque for the amount, fully expect¬ 
ing that by the time it reached her bankers in 
Manchester certain funds for her credit would have 
reached them from America. There was a hitch— 
the funds didn’t arrive—the cheque was returned. 
The jeweller approached the police—Hannaford, 
their Superintendent there, got out a warrant and 
tracked down Mrs. Whittingham. He arrested her 
—and she got away from him, left England, and 
returned to America. For some time she was in 
financial straits. But she did not forget her liabili¬ 
ties, and eventually she sent the Sellithwaite jeweller 
the agreed price of the diamond necklace, and eight 
years’ interest at five per cent on the amount. She 
holds his formal receipt for the money she sent him. 
So much for that episode—whether Hannaford ever 
knew of the payment or not, I don’t know: we are 
rather inclined to believe that he didn’t. But—the 


Still More 


205 


necklace was paid for, and paid for handsomely. 5 ' 

“I may as well say that I’m aware of that, 55 re¬ 
marked Hetherwick. “I have been informed of the 
fact at first hand. 55 

“Very good—I see you have been at Sellithwaite,” 
said Blenkinsop with another of his shrewd smiles. 
“Now then, we come to what is far more pertinent 
—recent events. The situation as regards Lady 
Riversreade and Madame Listorelle some little time 
ago—say when Hannaford came to town—was this. 
Lady Riversreade, widow of Sir John Riversreade, 
had inherited his considerable fortune, was settled 
at Riversreade Court in Surrey, and had founded a 
Home for wounded officers close by, of which my 
friend and partner, Major Penteney there, is London 
representative. Her sister, Madame Listorelle, had 
a flat in Paddington and another in New York—she 
was chiefly in New York, but she was sometimes in 
London, and sometimes in Paris: as a matter of fact 
Madame Listorelle is an expert in precious stones, 
and a dealer in them. But she has recently become 
engaged to be married to a well-known peer, an 
elderly, very wealthy man—which possibly has a 
good deal to do with what I am going to tell you. 55 

“Probably, I think, Blenkinsop—not possibly, 55 
suggested Penteney. “Probably!—decidedly. 55 

“Probably, then—probably ! 55 assented Blenkinsop. 

** 


206 Black Money 

He leaned forward across his desk towards the two 
listeners. “Now, gentlemen, your closest attention— 
for I’m coming to the really important points of this 
matter—those that affect the police particularly. 
About a fortnight ago, Lady Riversreade, being in 
her private office at her Home, close by Riversreade 
Court, was waited upon by a man who sent in a 
card bearing the name of Dr. Cyprian Baseverie. 
Lady Riversreade thought that the presenter of this 
card was some medical man who wished to inspect 
the Home, and he was admitted to see her. She 
soon found out that he had come on no such errand 
as she had imagined! He told her a strange tale. 
He let her know to begin with that he was fully con¬ 
versant with that episode in her sister’s life which 
related to Sellithwaite and the diamond necklace— 
Lady Riversreade, who knew all about it, felt that 
the man’s information had been gained at first-hand. 
He also let her know that Madame Listorelle’s 
whereabouts and engagement were familiar to him: 
in short, he showed that he was well up in the present 
family history both as regards Lady Riversreade 
and her sister. Then he let his hand be seen, more 
plainly. He told Lady Riversreade that a certain 
gang of men in London had become acquainted with 
the facts of the Sellithwaite matter, the warrant, the 
arrest, the escape, and that they were also aware of 


Still More 


207 


Madame Listorelle’s engagement to Lord—we will 
leave his name out at present, or refer to him as 
Lord X—and that they wanted a price for their 
silence. In other words, they were determined on 
blackmail. If they were not paid their price, they 
were going to Lord X, with all the facts, to tell him 
that he was engaged to a woman who, as they would 
put it, was still liable, by the law of the land, to ar¬ 
rest and prosecution for fraud.” 

“Isn’t she?” asked Matherfield, suddenly. “No 
time-limit in these sort of cases, I think, Mr. Blen- 
kinsop! Liable ten or twenty or thirty years after 
—I think!” 

“I’ve already said that the Sellithwaite affair was 
one of account,” replied Blenkinsop. “There was 
no intent to defraud, and the full amount and inter¬ 
est on it was duly paid. But that’s not the point— 
we’re dealing with the presentment of this to Lady 
Riversreade by the man Baseverie. Of course Lady 
Riversreade didn’t know how the law might be, and 
she was alarmed on her sister’s account. She asked 
Baseverie what he wanted ? He told her plainly then 
that he could settle these men—if she would find the 
money. He had, he said, a certain hold over them 
which he could use to advantage. Lady Riversreade 
wanted to know what that hold was: he wouldn’t 
tell her. She then wanted to know how much the 


208 Black Money 

men wanted: he wouldn’t say. What he did say 
was that if she would be prepared to find the money 
to silence them, he, during the next week, would 
exert pressure on them to accept a reasonable 
amount, and would call on her on the following 
Friday and tell her what they would take. She made 
that appointment with him.” 

“And, I hope, took advice in the meantime,” mut¬ 
tered Matherfield. “Ought to have handed him 
over there and then!” 

“No—she took no advice in the meantime,” con¬ 
tinued Blenkinsop. “Madam Listorelle was in Paris 
—Major Penteney was away on business in the 
country. Lady Riversreade awaited Baseverie’s 
next coming. When he came he told her what his 
gang wanted—thirty thousand pounds. He speci¬ 
fied, too, the way in which it was to be paid—in 
a fashion which would have prevented the payment 
being traced to the people who received it. But now 
Lady Riversreade was more prepared—she had had 
time to think. She expected Major Penteney next 
day; she also knew that her sister would return 
from Paris on the following Monday. So she told 
Baseverie that she would give him an answer on 
Monday evening, if he would make an appointment 
to meet her at some place in London. Eventually 
they made an appointment at Vivian’s, in Candle- 


Still More 


209 


stick Passage. Baseverie went away: next day 
Lady Riversreade told Major Penteney all that had 
happened. As a result, he went with her to Vivian’s 
on Monday evening. They waited an hour beyond 
the fixed time, Baseverie made no appearance-” 

“Just so!” muttered Matherfield. “He wouldn’t 
—the Major being there!” 

“Perhaps,” assented Blenkinsop. “Anyway, he 
didn’t materialise. So Lady Riversreade went away, 
leaving Major Penteney behind her. I may say 
that he stopped there for some further time, keep¬ 
ing a sharp look-out for the man whom Lady 
Riversreade had described in detail—a remarkable 
man in appearance, I understand. But he never saw 
him.” 

“No!” exclaimed Matherfield, cynically. “Of 
course he didn’t! But she would ha’ done!—if 
she’d gone alone.” 

“Well, there it was,” continued Blenkinsop. 
“Now for Lady Riversreade. She drove to her 
sister’s flat in Paddington, and found Madame Lis- 
torelle just returned from Paris. She told her all 
that had happened. Madame Listorelle determined 
to go to New York at once and get certain papers 
from her flat there which would definitely establish 
her absolute innocence in the Sellithwaite affair. 
Leaving Lady Riversreade in the flat, Madam Lis- 


14 



210 Black Money 

torelle set off for Southampton before five o’clock 
next morning—yes?” 

Matherfield, uttering a deep groan, smote his 
forehead. 

“Aye!” he muttered. “Just so! To be sure! 
But go on!—go on, sir!” 

“You seem to be highly surprised,” said Blenkin- 
sop. “However—at Southampton she booked a 
passage in a name she always used when travelling 
—her maiden name—by the Tartaric, sailing that 
afternoon. That done, she went to a hotel for lunch. 
Then she began to think things over, more calmly. 
And in the end, instead of sailing for New York, 
she went back, cancelled her booking, and set off 
by train to Lord X’s country seat in Wiltshire, 
and told him the whole story. She wired to her 
sister as to what she had done, and in the evening 
wrote to her. Meanwhile, Lady Riversreade had 
returned, early in the morning, to Riversreade 
Court. Major Penteney went with her. He was 
confident that Baseverie would turn up. He did 
turn up! But he did not see Lady Riversreade. He 
saw Major Penteney—alone. And Major Penteney, 
after a little plain talk to him, metaphorically kicked 
him out, and told him to do his worst. He went!— 
warned that if he ever showed himself there again 
he would be handed over to the police.” 


Still More 


211 


Matherfield groaned again, but the reason of his 
distress was obviously of a different nature. 

“A mistake, sir!—a great mistake!” he exclaimed, 
shaking his head at Penteney. “You shouldn't have 
let that fellow go like that! You should have handed 
him over there and then. Go?—you don't know 
where he may be!” 

Penteney laughed. 

“Oh, well, we’re not quite such fools as we seem, 
Matherfield,” he replied. “When I went down to 
Dorking with Lady Riversreade on Tuesday morn¬ 
ing, I had with me a smart man whom I can trust. 
He saw Baseverie arrive: he saw Baseverie leave: 
I think we shall be able to put our fingers on Base¬ 
verie at any moment. Our man won't lose sight of 
him!” 

“Oh, well, that’s better, sir, that's much better!” 
said Matherfield. “That’s all right!—a chap like 
that should be watched night and day. But now, 
gentlemen, about this reward? Your notion of of¬ 
fering it sprang, of course, from this Baseverie 
business. But—how, exactly? Did he mention 
Hannaford to Lady Riversreade?” 

“No!” replied Blenkinsop. “I’ll tell you how we 
came to issue the advertisement. All Sunday after¬ 
noon and evening, and for some time on Monday 
morning, Lady Riversreade, Major Penteney, and 


212 Black Money 

myself were in close consultation about this affair. 
I’ll tell you at once how and why we connected it 
with the poisoning of Hannaford, of which, of 
course, all of us had read in the newspapers.” 

'‘Aye!—how, now?” asked Matherfield. 

“Because of this,” answered Blenkinsop. He 
tapped his desk to emphasise his words, watching 
Matherfield keenly as he spoke. “Because of this— 
Baseverie told Lady Riversreade that the gang of 
blackmailers had in their possession the original 
warrant for Mrs. Whittingham’s arrest!” 

Hetherwick felt himself impelled to jump in his 
chair; to exclaim loudly. He repressed the inclina¬ 
tion, but Matherfield was less reserved. 

“Ah!” he exclaimed sharply. “Ah!” 

“Baseverie made a false step there,” continued 
Blenkinsop. “He should never have told that. But 
he did—no doubt he thought a rich woman easy 
prey. Now of course, when we came to consult, 
we knew all about the Sellithwaite affair; we knew, 
too, that Hannaford was superintendent at the time 
and that he had the warrant: it was not at ali im¬ 
probable that he had preserved it in his pocket-book, 
and had it on him when he came to London. What, 
then, was the obvious conclusion?—that the men 
who now held that warrant had got it, probably by 
foul means from Hannaford, and were concerned 


Still More 


213 


in his murder? And—more than that—did the 
gang of which Baseverie spoke really exist ? Wasn’t 
it likely that the gang was—Baseverie ?” 

“Aye!” muttered Matherfield. “I’ve been think¬ 
ing of that!” 

“Yet,” said Blenkinsop, “it was on the cards that 
there might be a gang. We searched all the news¬ 
papers’ accounts thoroughly—we found that next 
to no information could be got as to Hannaford’s 
movements between the time of his arrival in Lon¬ 
don and the night of his death. The one man who 
might have given more information about Hanna¬ 
ford’s doings on the evening preceding his death— 
Granett—was dead: evidently poisoned, as Hanna- 
ford was poisoned. These were circumstances— 
they’ve probably occurred to both of you—which 
led us to believe that Hannaford had formed the 
acquaintance of folk here in town who were of a 
shady sort. And one thing was absolutely certain— 
if the gang, or if Baseverie, had really got that 
warrant, they had got it from Hannaford! Eh?” 

“That may be taken as certain,” assented Hether- 
wick. “Either directly or indirectly, it must have 
been from him.” 

“We think they, or he, got it directly from him,” 
said Blenkinsop. “Our theory is that if there is a 
gang, Baseverie is an active, perhaps the leading 


214 Black Money 

member; that Hannaford was previously acquainted 
with him or some other member: that Hannaford 
was with him or them on the evening preceding his 
death; that he jokingly told them that he had dis¬ 
covered the identity of Madame Listorelle with Mrs. 
Whittingham; and that they poisoned him—and 
Granett, as being present—in order to keep the secret 
to themselves and to blackmail Madame Listorelle 
and her sister, Lady Riversreade. That’s our general 
idea—and that’s why, on Monday noon, we issued 
the advertisement. We meant to keep things to our¬ 
selves at first, and, if substantial evidence came, to 
pass it over to the police—now, you know every¬ 
thing. It may be, if there is a gang, that one member 
will turn traitor, for the sake of five thousand 
pounds and if he can exculpate himself satis¬ 
factorily : it may be, too, that matters will develop 
until we’re in a position to fasten things on 
Baseverie-” 

“I still wish that either Lady Riversreade or 
Major Penteney had handed him over to custody!” 
said Matherfield. “You see-” 

“You’ve got to remember that Baseverie never 
demanded anything for himself,” interrupted Pen¬ 
teney. “He represented himself as a go-between. 
But our man’s safe enough—a retired detective, 
and-” 




Still More 


215 


Just then a clerk opened the door and entered with 
a telegram. Blenkinsop tore open the envelope, 
glanced hurriedly at the message and flung the form 
on his desk with an exclamation of annoyance. 

“This is from our man!” he said. “Sent from 
Dover. Followed Baseverie down there—and Base- 
verie’s slipped him!” 


CHAPTER XVII 

THE TORN LABELS 


DENTENEY strode forward and picked up the 
telegram: a moment later he passed it over to 
Hetherwick. 

“That’s most unfortunate!” he exclaimed. “And 
unexpected, too. Of course, the fellow’s slipped off 
to the Continent.” 

Matherfield looked over Hetherwick’s shoulder 
and read the message: 

“Followed him down here last night put up at 

same hotel but he slipped me and got clear away 

early this morning returning now.” 

“You should have employed two men, gentlemen,” 
said Matherfield. “One’s not enough—in a case of 
that sort. But it’s as I said before—this man should 
have been given into custody at once. How¬ 
ever-” 

He got up from his chair, as if there was no more 
to be said, and moved towards the door. But half¬ 
way across the room, he paused. 

“You’ll let me know if anybody comes forward 
216 


The Tom Labels 217 

about that reward?” he suggested. “It’s more of 
a police matter, you know.” 

The two partners, who were obviously much an¬ 
noyed by the telegram, nodded. 

“We shall let you know—at once,” answered 
Blenkinsop. “Of course, you’ll regard all we’ve 
told you as strictly confidential?” 

“Oh, to be sure, sir,” replied Matherfield. “It’s 
not the only private and confidential feature of this 
affair, I assure you.” 

Outside, he turned to Hetherwick. 

“Well!” he said. “We’ve cleared up a few things, 
Mr. Hetherwick—or, rather, those two have cleared 
them up for us. But are we any nearer answering 
the question that we want answered—who poisoned 
Robert Hannaford?” 

“I think we are!” replied Hetherwick. “I am, 
anyhow! Either Baseverie poisoned him—or he 
knows who did!” 

“Knows who did!” repeated Matherfield. “Ah! 
—that’s more like it. I don’t think he did it—he 
wouldn’t be so ready about showing himself for¬ 
ward.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” remarked Hetherwick. 
“From what we’ve heard of him, he seems to be a 
bold and daring sort of scamp. Probably he thought 
he’d have a very easy prey in Lady Riversreade: 


218 Black Money 

probably, too, he believed that a woman who’s got 
all that money would make little to do about parting 
with thirty thousand pounds. One thing’s sure, 
however—Baseverie knows what we want to know. 
And—he’s gone!” 

“Perhaps—perhaps!” said Matherfield. “And 
perhaps not. This man of Penteney’s no doubt 
tracked him to Dover, and there he lost him, but that 
isn't saying that Baseverie’s gone on the Continent. 
If Baseverie’s the cute customer that he seems to be, 
he’d put two and two together when Major Penteney 
warned him off Riversreade Court. He’d probably 
suspect Penteney of setting a watch on him: he may 
have spotted the very man who was watching. 
Then, if he’d any sense, he’d lead that man a bit 
of a dance, and eventually double on him. No!—I 
should say Baseverie’s back here in town!—that’s 
about it, Mr. Hetherwick. But what’s this?—here's 
one of my men coming to meet us—I left word 
where I should be found.” 

Hetherwick looked up and saw a man, who was 
obviously a policeman in plain clothes, coming 
towards them. He was a quiet-looking, stodgy- 
faced man, but he had news written all over his 
plain face. 

“Well, Marler?” enquired Matherfield as they 
met. ‘‘Got something?” 


The Torn Labels 


219 


There was nobody about in that quiet corner of 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, yet the man looked round as 
if anxious to escape observation, and he spoke in a 
whisper: 

‘‘I believe I’ve got that chemist!” he answered. 
“Leastways, it’s like this. There’s a chemist I tried 
this morning—name of Macpherson, in Maiden 
Lane. I showed him the facsimiles of the lost labels 
on the medicine bottles, and asked him if he could 
give me any information. He’s a very cautious sort 
of man, I think—he examined the facsimiles a long 
time, saying nothing. Then he said he supposed I 
was a policeman and so on, and of course I had to 
tell him a bit—only a bit. Then he said, all of a 
sudden, ‘Look here, my friend,’ he said—‘you’d 
better tell me, straight out—has this to do with that 
Hannaford poisoning case?’ So of course I said 
that, between ourselves, it had. ‘Isn’t Matherfield 
in charge of that?’ he said. Of course I said you 
were. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘You send Matherfield 
to me. I’m not going to say anything to you,’ he 
said. ‘What I’ve got to say, I’ll say to Matherfield.’ 
So I went back to headquarters, and they told me 
you’d gone to Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” 

“All right, my lad!” said Matherfield. “If you’ve 
found the right man, I’ll remember you. What’s 
his name—Macpherson, Maiden Lane? Very good 


220 Black Money 

—then I’ll just step along and see him. Not a word 
to anybody, Marler!” he added, as the man turned 
away. “Keep close. Now this is a bit of all right, 
Mr. Hetherwick!” he continued, chuckling, and 
rubbing his hands. “This beats all we heard at 
Penteney’s! Only let me get the name and ad¬ 
dress of the man for whom that bottle of medicine 
was made up, and I think I shall have taken a 
long stride! But come along—we’ll see the chemist 
together.” 

The shop in Maiden Lane before which they 
presently paused was a small, narrow-fronted, old- 
fashioned establishment, with little in its window 
beyond the usual coloured bottles and over the front 
no more than the name Macpherson in faded gilt 
letters on a time-stained signboard. It was dark and 
stuffy within the shop, and Hetherwick had to strain 
his eyes to see a tall, thin, elderly, spectacled man, 
very precise and trim in appearance who stood be¬ 
hind the single counter silently regarding him and 
Matherfield. 

“Mr. Macpherson?” enquired Matherfield. “Just 
so! Good-morning, sir. My name’s Matherfield— 
Inspector Matherfield. One of my men tells 


“One moment!” interrupted the chemist. He 
stepped behind a screen at the rear of his shop and 



The Torn Labels 


221 


presently returned with a young man to whom he 
whispered a word or two. Then he beckoned to 
his two visitors, and opening a door at the further 
corner, ushered them into a private parlour. “We 
shall be to ourselves here, Mr. Matherfield,” he said. 
“And I’ve no doubt your business is of a highly con¬ 
fidential nature.” 

“Something of that sort, Mr. Macpherson,” as¬ 
sented Matherfield, as he and Hetherwick took 
chairs at a centre table. “But my man’ll have pre¬ 
pared you a bit, no doubt. He tells me he showed 
you the photographed facsimiles of certain torn 
labels that are on a medicine bottle which figures 
in the Hannaford case, and that in consequence of 
your seeing them you asked to see me. Well, sir, 
here I am l” 

“Aye, just so, Mr. Matherfield, just so, precisely,” 
replied the chemist, turning up the gas-jet which 
hung above the table. “Aye, to be sure!” He, too, 
sat down at the table, and folded his long thin fin¬ 
gers together. “Aye, and you’ll be thinking, Mr. 
Matherfield. that yon bottle has something to do 
with the poisoning of Hannaford?” 

“I’ll be candid with you, Mr. Macpherson,” an¬ 
swered Matherfield. “But first let me ask you some¬ 
thing—have you read the newspaper accounts of 
this affair?” 


222 Black Money 

“I've done that, Mr. Matherfield—yes, all I could 
lay hands on.” 

“Then you’ll be aware that there was another man 
poisoned as well as Hannaford; a man named 
Granett, who was in Hannaford’s company on the 
night when it all happened? This gentleman here 
is the one that was in the Underground train and 
saw Hannaford and Granett together; saw Hanna¬ 
ford die, and Granett make off, as he said, to fetch 
a doctor.” 

“That’ll be Mr. Hetherwick, I’m thinking,” said 
the chemist, with a polite bow. “Aye, just so.” 

“I see you’ve read the reports of the inquest,” re¬ 
marked Matherfield with a smile. “Very well, as I 
say, Granett was found dead, later. I discovered a 
medicine bottle and a glass at his bed-side. There’d 
been whisky in both, but according to the medical 
experts, there had also been poison—the traces, they 
say, were indisputable. Now on that medicine bot¬ 
tle were two torn labels—on the upper one, as you 
see from the facsimile photograph, there’s been a 
name written—all that’s left in the initial C. and the 
first letter of a surname, A. All the rest’s gone. And 
what I want to know is—are you the chemist that 
made up the medicine or the tonic or whatever it 
was that was in that bottle, and if so, who is the 
customer for whom you made it, and whose Chris- 


The Torn Labels 


223 


tian name begins with C. and surname with A. ? Do 
you comprehend me?” 

“Aye, aye, Mr. Matherfield!” answered the chem¬ 
ist, eagerly. “I’m appreciating every word you’re 
saying, and very lucid it all is. And I’m willing to 
give you all the information in my power, but first 
I’d just like to have a bit myself on a highly perti¬ 
nent matter. Now you’ll be aware, Mr. Matherfield, 
if you’ve seen the newspapers of this last day or two 
that there’s a firm of solicitors in Lincoln’s Inn 
Fields that’s offering a reward of five thousand 
pounds-” 

“I’m well enough aware of it, Mr. Macpherson,” 
interrupted Matherfield, with a laugh, and a sly 
glance at Hetherwick. “Mr. Hetherwick and 
myself have just come straight from their office. 
And what you want to know is—if you give me 
information will it be the same thing as giving 
it to them? You want to make sure about the 
reward ?” 

“Precisely, Mr. Matherfield, precisely!” assented 
the chemist, eagerly. “You’ve hit my meaning ex¬ 
actly. For of course, when there’s a reward like 


“If you give us information, Mr. Macpherson, 
that’ll lead to the arrest and conviction of the guilty 
party, you can rest assured you’ll get that reward,” 




224 Black Money 

said Matherfield. “And Mr. Hetherwick’ll support 
me in that, I’m sure.” 

“I’m satisfied—I’m satisfied, gentlemen!” ex¬ 
claimed Macpherson, as Hetherwick murmured his 
confirmation. “Well, it’s a strange, black business, 
and I’d no idea that I would come to be associated 
with it until that man of yours called in this morn¬ 
ing, Mr. Matherfield. But then I knew!—and I’ll 
shorten matters by telling you, at once—I made up 
the tonic that was in that bottle!” 

Matherfield rubbed his hands. 

“Good!” he said quietly. “Good! And now then 
—the critical question! For whom?” 

“For a Dr. Charles Ambrose, from a prescription 
of his own,” replied Macpherson. “It’s a sort of 
pick-me-up tonic. I first made it up for him two 
years ago—I’ve made it up for him several times 
since. The last occasion was about six weeks ago. 
I have all the dates, though, in my books: I can show 
you them.” 

“Wait a bit,” said Matherfield. “That’s of no 
great importance—yet. Dr. Charles Ambrose, eh? 
Have you/his address?” 

“Aye, to be sure!” answered the chemist. “His 
address is 3.B., Number 59 John Street.” 

“Adelphi ?” suggested Matherfield. 

“Adelphi, precisely, 3.B., Number 59 John 


The Torn Labels 225 

Street, Adelphi, repeated Macpherson. “That’s in 
the books, too.” 

Matherfield suddenly became silent, staring at the 
floor. When he looked up again it was at Hether- 
wick. 

“Didn’t Granett exclaim that he knew of a doctor, 
close by, when he rushed out of that train at Char¬ 
ing Cross Underground?” he asked. “Gave the 
impression that he knew of one, close by, anyway?” 

“He said distinctly close by,” answered Hether- 
wick. “Why, are you thinking-” 

Matherfield interrupted him with a wave of the 
hand, and turned again to the chemist. “You’ve 
seen this Dr. Charles Ambrose?” he asked abruptly. 

“Oh, I have, Mr. Matherfield, many a time and 
often,” replied Macpherson. “But now I come to 
think of it, not lately.” 

“When?—last?” demanded Matherfield. 

“I should think last when he called in and told 
me to make him another bottle of his tonic,” an¬ 
swered Macpherson after some thought—“as I said 
just now, perhaps about six weeks ago. But the 
books-” 

“Never mind the books, yet. What’s this Dr. 
Charles Ambrose like?” 

“A tall, handsome man, distinguished-looking—I 
should say about forty years of age. A dark man— 



226 Black Money 

hair., eyes, beard. He wears his moustache and 
beard in—well, a sort of foreign fashion—in fact, 
he’s more like a Spaniard than an Englishman.” 

“But—is he an Englishman ?” 

“He was always taken by me for an Englishman 
—he speaks like one—that is, like an Englishman 
of the upper classes. He once told me he was an 
Oxford man—we’d been talking about universities.” 

“Well-dressed man?” 

“Aye, he was that! A smart, fine man.’ 

“Did you ever see him in a big, dark overcoat, 
with a large white muffler about his neck and the 
lower part of his face ?” 

“Aye, I’ve seen him like that! On chilly evenings. 
Indeed that’s another thing he told me—he was sub¬ 
ject to bronchial attacks.” 

“Muffled himself well up, eh?” suggested Mather- 
field. 

“Aye, just so! He’s been in here, like that.” 

Matherfield turned to Hetherwick with a signifi¬ 
cant glance. 

“That’s the man who met Hannaford at Victoria 
Station that night!—the man that Ledbitter saw, 
and that nobody’s seen since!” he exclaimed. “A 
million to one on it! Now then, who is he?” 

“You know his name, and his address,” remarked 
Hetherwick. 


The Torn Labels 


227 


“Yes—and I know too, that Mr. Macpherson here 
hasn’t seen him lately!” retorted Matherfield, drily. 
“How often, now, Mr. Macpherson, did you use 
to see him?—I mean, did you use to see him at 
other times than when he came into your shop?” 

“Oh, yes. Fve seen him in the street, outside,” 
replied the chemist. “I’ve seen him, too, going in 
and out of Rule’s, and in and out of Romano’s.” 

“In other words,” remarked Matherfield, “he was 
pretty well known about this end of the Strand: I’m 
not sure, now, that I don’t remember such a man 
myself—black, silky, carefully trimmed beard, al¬ 
ways a big swell. Rut—Mr. Macpherson hasn’t 
seen him lately! Hm! Do you know if he was in 
practice, Mr. Macpherson?” 

“I could not say as to that, Mr. Matherfield. See¬ 
ing that he called himself Dr. Ambrose, I supposed 
he was a medical practitioner, but I don’t know what 
his degrees or qualifications were, at all.” 

Matherfield glanced at a row of books which 
stood over a desk at the side of the parlour. 

“Have you got an up-to-date medical directory?” 
he asked. “Good!—let’s look the man up. You 
turn up his name, Mr. Hetherwick,” he went on, 
as the chemist handed down a volume; “you’re more 
used to books than I am. Find out if there’s any¬ 
thing about him.” 


228 Black Money 

Hetherwick turned over the pages of the Direc¬ 
tory, and presently shook his head. 

“There’s no Charles Ambrose here,” he said. 
“Look for yourselves.” 

Matherfield glanced at the place indicated and 
said nothing: Macpherson made an exclamation of 
surprise. 

“Aye, well, he may be a foreigner, after all,” he 
observed. “But I shouldn’t have considered him 
one, and he certainly told me he was an Oxford 
graduate.” 

“Foreigner or Oxforder, I’m going to know more 
about him!” declared Matherfield, rising and grasp¬ 
ing his stick with an air of determination. “Well, 
Mr. Macpherson, we’re obliged to you, and if this 
results in anything—you know! But for the mo¬ 
ment—a bit of that caution that you Scotsmen are 
famous for—eh?” 

Outside, Matherfield laid his hand on Hether- 
wick’s elbow. 

“Mr. Hetherwick!” he said, solemnly. “We’re 
on tile track—at last! Sure as my name’s Mather¬ 
field, we’ve hit the trail! Now we’re going to John 
Street, Adelphi—and I’ll lay you anything you like 
that the man’s vanished!” 

Hetherwick followed his companion across the 
Strand, into the Adelphi, and to the house they 


The Torn Labels 


229 


wanted—an old Adams mansion, now divided into 
flats. Matherfield did not take the trouble to ascend 
to the upper regions: he sought and found a care¬ 
taker and put a question to him. The man shook 
his head. 

“Dr. Ambrose, sir?” he replied. “Oh, yes, Dr. 
Ambrose lives here—3. B. But he ain’t in, sir—ain’t 
at home, in fact. He’s been away three weeks or 
so—don’t know where he is.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 

THE TELEGRAM 


W ITH a meaning look at Hetherwick, Mather¬ 
field drew the caretaker aside and talked to 
him for a few moments: the man presently turned 
and went downstairs to the basement from which 
they had summoned him. 

“That’s all right,” remarked Matherfield with a 
wink. “He’s going to let us into Ambrose’s flat. 
Didn’t I tell you we shouldn’t find Ambrose here? 
Not he!—I should say he’s off!” 

“Supposing he returns—while we’re here?” asked 
Hetherwick. 

“Wish he would!” chuckled Matherfield. “No¬ 
body I want to see more! If he did, why, I should 
just ask him to take a little walk with me—to ex¬ 
plain a few matters. But he won’t! Here’s the 
man—we’ll go up.” 

The caretaker reappeared with a bunch of keys 
and led the way to a flat at the top of the old house. 
He unlocked a door and stood aside. 

“You needn’t wait,” said Matherfield. “I’ll shut 


230 




The Telegram 231 

the place up again when we leave, and let you know. 
All right.” 

He walked in, with Hetherwick at his heels, as 
soon as the caretaker had gone, and once inside, 
closed the door carefully upon himself and his com¬ 
panion. But Hetherwick, after a first glance at the 
sitting-room into which they had entered, a some¬ 
what untidy, shabbily-furnished place, went straight 
to the hearth and pointed to a framed photograph, 
time-stained and faded, which hung over the mantel¬ 
piece. 

“There's a striking and significant piece of evi¬ 
dence—at once!” he exclaimed. “Do you know 
what that is, Matherfield ?” 

Matherfield looked in the direction indicated, and 
shook his head. “Not the slightest idea!” he an¬ 
swered. “I see it's a photograph of some old church 
or other—that’s all.” 

“That’s the famous Parish Church of Sellith- 
waite!” said Hetherwick. “One of the very finest in 
England! I had a look at it, only a mere look— 
when I was down there. Now then, what’s this man 
doing with a picture of Sellithwaite Parish Church 
in his rooms ? Hannaford came from Sellithwaite!” 

“That’s a mighty significant thing, anyway,” 
agreed Matherfield. “We’re getting at something, 
this morning!” He looked more carefully at the 


232 Black Money 

photdgraph. “Grand old building, as you say,” he 
continued. “Of course, the mere fact of his having 
it put up there shows that he’s some interest in it. 
Sellithwaite man, likely. But we’ll find all that out. 
Now let’s look round.” 

There was little to see, Hetherwick thought. The 
flat consisted of a sitting-room, and bedroom, and 
a small bathroom. The furniture was plain, old, 
rather shabby; the whole place suggested that its oc¬ 
cupant was not over well-to-do: the only signs of 
affluence to be seen were manifested in the toilet 
articles on the dressing-table, in a luxurious, if well- 
worn dressing-gown which hung on the rail of the 
bed, and in the presence of carefully folded and 
pressed garments laid out in the bedroom. There 
were a few books, chiefly medical treatises, in shelves 
in the sitting-room; a few personal pictures, mainly 
of college and school groups on the walls: and a 
desk in the centre, littered with more books, writing 
materials, and papers. Matherfield began to turn 
them over. 

“See that?” he exclaimed suddenly, pointing to a 
movable calendar which stood on the top ledge of the 
desk. “Notice the date? March 18th! That’s the 
day on which Hannaford got his quietus. At least, 
strictly speaking, it was the day before. Hannaford 
actually died on the 19th—about—what was it?— 


233 


The Telegram 

very early in the morning, anyway. What’s one to 
gather from this?”—that Ambrose hasn’t been here 
since the 18th. So—hullo!” 

Turning over the loose papers that lay about the 
blotting-pad, he had suddenly lighted upon a tele¬ 
gram—just as suddenly he thrust it into Hether- 
wick’s hands. 

“Look at that!” he exclaimed. “Now that is a 
find! Biggest we’ve had—so far!” 

Hetherwick read the apparently innocent message: 

“All right will meet you Victoria bookstall this 
evening as suggested. Hannaford.” 

“See the date ?” said Matherfield, excitedly. 
“March 18th! Now we’ve got at it! Ambrose was the 
man that met Hannaford at Victoria, the tall, muf¬ 
fled-up man that Ledbitter saw! That’s—certain!” 

“Seems so,” agreed Hetherwick. He was still 
studying the telegram. “Sent off from Fleet Street, 
12:15 that day,” he muttered. “Yes—there doesn’t 
seem much doubt about this. I wonder who this 
man Ambrose is ?” 

“We’ll soon get to know something about that, 
Mr. Hetherwick!” exclaimed Matherfield briskly. 
“Now, I’m just going to put that wire in my pocket, 
lock up this flat again, have another word or two 
with that caretaker chap, and go in search of the in- 


234 Black Money 

formation you refer to—come with me! Later, I 
shall get a search warrant, and make a thorough ex¬ 
amination of this flat. Let’s be moving.” 

Downstairs again Matherfield called up the care¬ 
taker. 

‘‘You say Dr. Ambrose has been away for a bit?” 
he asked. “Is there anything unusual in that?” 

“Well, not so very,” answered the man. “Ever 
since he came here, two or three years ago, he’s been 
used to going away for awhile—I believe he used to 
go over to Paris. But I never remember him being 
away more than a week at a time, before.” 

“Evidently he’s a doctor,” suggested Matherfield. 
“Did he ever have patients come to see him, here?” 

The caretaker shook his head. 

“No!” he replied. “He never had anybody much 
come to see him here—never remember anybody, 
unless it was somebody he brought in at night for a 
smoke, you know. He generally went out early in a 
morning, and came home late—very late.” 

“What about his meals ?” asked Matherfield. 

“He’d no meals here—unless he made himself a 
cup of coffee or so in a morning,” said the caretaker. 
“All his meals out—breakfast, too. Sundays as well 
as weekdays. We saw very little of him.” 

“Who does up his rooms—makes the bed and so 
on?” enquired Matherfield. 


The Telegram 235 

“My wife,” answered the caretaker. “She does 
all that.” 

“And she hasn’t had anything to do for—how 
long?” 

“Well, it’ll be three weeks, I’m sure. He never 
used to say anything at any time. When he went 
off—just went. He’d call downstairs when he came 
back and let us know he was back, d’ye see? But 
we never thought he’d be as long away as this, this 
time: it was only this morning, just before you 
came, that my missis said to me that it seemed 
queer.” 

“Why queer?” 

“Because he’s taken nothing with him. However 
short a time he might be away before he always took 
a suit-case, clean linen, shaving things, so on—he 
was a very particular gentleman about his appear¬ 
ance—always dressed like a swell and had a clean 
shirt every day, used to have a nice heavy washing- 
bill, anyhow!” 

“Did he seem to be pretty well supplied with 
money?” asked Matherfield. “Or—the opposite?” 

“Couldn’t rightly say,” replied the caretaker. “Al¬ 
ways paid his rent, and us, and the washing regular, 
but as for anything else, why, we’d no means of 
knowing. Of course, as I tell you, he always looked 
the gentleman.” 


236 


Black Money 

“I see!” said Matherfield. “All right—you 11 see 
me again this afternoon.” 

He strode away towards the Strand, and there 
ushered Hetherwick into the first empty taxi-cab they 
met. 

“Where, now?” asked Hetherwick, as Matherfield 
followed him into the cab after a word to its driver. 

“We’re going now, sir, to Hallam Street, to the 
offices of the General Medical Council,” answered 
Matherfield, promptly. “I’ve had experience of en¬ 
quiring into the antecedents of medical men before, 
and I know where to find out all about any of ’em. 
I’m going to find out all about this Dr. Charles 
Ambrose—that is, of course, if he’s an English doc¬ 
tor.” 

“Probably he isn’t,” remarked Hetherwick. 
“Any more than Baseverie is. ” 

“Ah, Baseverie!” exclaimed Matherfield. “I’d 
forgotten that man for the time being! Well, while 
we’re about it, we’ll see if we can unearth a bit of 
information concerning him. We’ve done a bit of 
good work this morning, ye know, Mr. Hether¬ 
wick !” he went on rubbing his hands with satisfac¬ 
tion. “We’ve practically made certain that Am¬ 
brose was the man who met Hannaford at Victoria, 
and we’re sure he’s the man to whom Macpherson 
supplied the bottle in which the poison was dis- 


237 


The Telegram 

covered at Granett’s room. And now we’ll hope for 
a bit more illumination in the darkness!” 

Hetherwick presently found himself closeted with 
Matherfield and a grave official who, after seeing 
Matherfield’s credentials and listening to his reasons 
for his visit of enquiry, began to consult various 
books of reference. Presently he left the room and 
was away some time; when he returned he brought 
with him two slips of paper which he handed to 
Matherfield. 

“I have had the particulars you require written 
out for you,” he said. “So—you can examine them 
at your leisure. I—” here he smiled, frostily—“I 
gather that you are somewhat anxious to get in 
touch with these men?” 

“I think it’s extremely probable, sir, that before 
the day’s over, I shall be exceedingly anxious to get 
in touch with both!” answered Matherfield, with 
something very like a wink. “More than anxious!” 

The grave official nodded and smiled again, and 
Matherfield and Hetherwick went away. Outside 
Matherfield looked right and left. 

“Mr. Hetherwick,” he said, “it’s well past twelve, 
and I’d my breakfast before eight—I’m hungry! 
Let’s turn into the first decent place we see and get 
a bite and a sup! And we’ll examine these papers.” 

He presently led Hetherwick into the saloon-bar 


238 Black Money 

of a tavern, and remarking that he had a taste for 
ale and bread and cheese at that time o’ day, provided 
himself with these matters and retreated to a snug 
corner, whither Hetherwick followed him with a 
whisky-and-soda. 

“Here’s success to our endeavours, Mr. Hether¬ 
wick !” said Matherfield, lifting his tankard. “I’m 
now firmly under the impression that we’re adding 
link after link to the chain! But let’s see what 
we’ve got here in this crabbed writing.” 

He laid the slips of paper on the table at which 
they sat; both bent over them. There were not many 
words on either, but to Hetherwick they were sig¬ 
nificant enough in their plain straightforwardness. 

“Charles Ambrose, M.B. Oxon. Medical Officer 
of Health, Crayport, Lancs. 1903-4: in practice 
Whiteburn, Lancs. 1904-9: police-surgeon, Selli- 
thwaite, W. R. Yorks. 1909-12; in practice 
Brondesbury, London, 1912-18. Struck off 
Register by General Medical Council for unpro¬ 
fessional conduct, 1918.” 

“So much for him!” muttered Matherfield, his 
cheek bulging with bread and cheese. “I thought it 
would turn out to be something of that sort! Now 
t’other.” 


“Cyprian Baseverie, L.R.C.P., L.R.C.S. In prac- 


239 


The Telegram 

tice Birmingham, 1897-1902; at Wyborough, 
Northants, 1902-11; at Dalston, N., 1911-17. 
Convicted of fraud at Central Criminal Court, 
1917, and struck off Register by General Medical 
Council, 1918.” 

“Ho-ho!” exclaimed Matherfield. “Been in the 
dock already, has he? Well, well, Mr. Hetherwick, 
we continue to learn sir! We know still more. Base- 
verie’s a convicted criminal. Both have been struck 
off the Register. Ambrose was certainly at Selli- 
thwaite—and he’d be there, according to these dates 
at the time of the Whittingham affair. A promis¬ 
ing pair—for our purpose! What do you think?” 

“I’m wondering if the two men know each other,” 
answered Hetherwick. 

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said Matherfield. “Prob¬ 
ably they do. Probably they’re mixed up together 
in this affair. Probably they’re actual partners in 
it—accessories to each other. But now that I know 
this much about them, I can find out more. Especi¬ 
ally about Ambrose, as he was a police-surgeon. I 
can find out, too, what Baseverie’s particular crime 
was. Defrauding a patient, I should imagine. But 
I’ll put one or two men on to working up particulars 
and records of both Baseverie and Ambrose this 
afternoon and of course I shall go back and thor¬ 
oughly examine that flat in John Street.” 


240 Black Money 

“And, I suppose, in view of the evidence supplied 
by Macpherson, set up a search for Ambrose?” sug¬ 
gested Hetherwick. 

“To be sure! We’ll get out a ‘tracked by the 
Police’ notice, describing him to the best of our 
power,” replied Matherfield. “But I’ll tell you—in 
my opinion it’ll be a stiff job getting hold of him. 
If you want my opinion, as a private individual, he’s 
probably got that secret invention of Hannaford’s 
and gone off across the Atlantic with it—to turn it 
into money.” 

“That’s very likely,” assented Hetherwick. ‘But 
what about Baseverie?” 

“I’m not so much concerned about him, now,” 
said Matherfield. “Ambrose seems to be the man 
I want—first, anyway. But I shall do what I can 
to get hold of Baseverie. If these Penteney and 
Blenkinsop people had only come to us instead of 
laying plans of their own, some good would have 
been done. I shouldn’t have let that man get away!” 

“My belief,” observed Hetherwick, “is that Base¬ 
verie and Ambrose are partners in this affair. And 
—how do we know that they didn’t meet at Dover, 
and that they haven’t gone off together?” 

Still wondering about this, Hetherwick next 
morning went round to Lincoln’s Inn Fields and 
asked to see one of the partners. He was shown 


241 


The Telegram 

into the room in which he and Matherfield had had 
their interview on the previous day. But he found 
Major Penteney alone—Blenkinsop, remarked the 
junior partner, had business in the Courts that morn¬ 
ing. 

“I called,” explained Hetherwick—“to ask if you 
had any more information about Baseverie’s disap¬ 
pearance at Dover?” 

Penteney made a wry face. 

“More vexed than ever about that!” he answered. 
“Most inexcusably stupid conduct on the part of our 
man—man we’ve always found so reliable previously. 
He came back yesterday afternoon, crestfallen, told 
us all about it, and got a jolly good wigging. He’d 
done well at first. Tracked his man from Rivers- 
reade Court to Dorking, and thence to Red Hill, 
and thence to Dover, after one or two changes. 
Baseverie put up at some hotel—I forget which— 
near the harbour; our man, certain that Baseverie 
w r as quite unconscious that he was being followed, 
put up there, too. Nothing happened—he saw Base¬ 
verie at dinner that night, saw him in the smoking- 
room after; in fact, he had a game of billiards with 
him, and saw him retire to bed—their rooms were 
adjacent. He felt sure of seeing him at breakfast 
—but when he went down, he found that the bird 
had flown—flown, said the night-porter, before six 


16 


242 Black Money 

o’clock; he didn’t know where. Nor could our man 
trace him at station or pier, or anywhere.” 

“Careless sort of watching,” said Hetherwick. 
“Worse than careless!” agreed Penteney. “As I 

said, he caught it hot. But now-” 

The telephone bell on Blenkinsop’s desk rang. 
With a word of excuse Penteney turned to it. A 
moment later a smothered ejaculation of surprise 
came from him, followed by a sharp interrogation 
on his part. Suddenly he turned on Hetherwick. 

“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “What’s all this ? 
This is Lady Riversreade speaking? She says her 
sister, who came yesterday, and Miss Featherstone 
have been kidnapped! Kidnapped!—this morning!” 


CHAPTER XIX 


THE LONDON ROAD 

IT ETHER WICK leapt to his feet with a sharp 
exclamation — half amazed, half-incredulous. 
But already his thoughts were with Rhona; he saw 
the dangers of the situation for her as Penteney 
could not see them. 

“Impossible!” he said. “Kidnapped!—in broad 
daylight! And—from there?” 

But Penteney was still busy at the telephone, giv* 
ing and receiving rapid answers. 

“Yes, yes!” he was saying. “To be sure!—police 
—yes! Pm coming straight there, now—car—tell 
the police to get busy.” 

He turned sharply to Hetherwick as he laid down 
the instrument. 

“Fear there’s here no impossibility about it!” he 
said. “Lady Riversreade says they were carried off 
as they crossed from the Court to the Home—she’s 
heard something of a big car with strange men in it. 
I’m going down there at once—there’s more in this 
affair than one sees at first.” 

243 


244 Black Money 

“I’ll come with you,” said Hetherwick. “Where 
can we get a car—a fast one?” 

“Garage close by, in Kingsway,” answered Pen- 
teney, hurriedly seizing on one of several greatcoats 
that hung in a recess. “Here!—get into one of 
these—you're about my height, and the air’s still 
nippy, motoring. Now come on—we’ll be there in 
under an hour. You know,” he continued, as they 
left the office and hastened towards Kingsway, “I 
think I see through something of this already, 
Hetherwick. These fellows probably believed they 
were kidnapping Lady Riversreade!—and got her 
sister in mistake for her. Ransom, you know! The 
blackmailing dodge failed—now they’re trying this. 
A desperate and dare-devil lot, evidently!” 

Hetherwick nodded a silent assent. He was won¬ 
dering whether or not to tell Penteney that the Miss 
Feather stone of whom he had just spoken was in 
reality the granddaughter of the man whose myste¬ 
rious murder appeared to be the starting-point of the 
more recent, equally mysterious events. That fact, 
it seemed to him, would have to come out sooner or 
later—and there might be possible complications, 
perhaps unpleasantness, when Lady Riversreade dis¬ 
covered that Rhona had gone to her as a spy. Might 
it not be well to take Penteney into his confidence 
and explain matters? But on reflection he decided 


245 


The London Road 

to wait until they knew the exact situation at Rivers- 
reade Court: so far, in spite of Lady Riversreade’s 
news he felt it difficult to believe that two women, 
one of them, to his knowledge, a girl of character 
and resource, and the other a woman of the world 
used to travelling and adventure, could be carried 
off in broad daylight in immediate prospect of two 
large houses—the thing seemed impossible. 

But when, some fifty minutes later, the big power¬ 
ful car which Penteney had commissioned in Kings- 
way, dashed up to Riversreade Court, Hetherwick 
found that there had been no exaggeration in Lady 
Riversreade’s telephone message. She herself came 
hurrying out to meet them; there were men standing 
about the terrace outside and others visible in the 
park: a couple of uniformed policemen followed 
Lady Riversreade from her study, where Hetherwick 
supposed her to have been in consultation with them. 
And her first glance was directed on Hetherwick 
himself: she addressed him before Penteney could 
go through any hurried introduction. 

“Fve seen you before!” she exclaimed abruptly. 
“You were with my secretary, Miss Featherstone, at 
Victoria, Sunday morning. Are you engaged to 
her?” 

“No!” replied Hetherwick. “But we are close 
friends.” 


246 Black Money 

“Well, Miss Featherstone’s been run away with— 
and so has my sister, Madame Listorelle,” continued 
Lady Riversreade. “That’s the long and short of 
it! You seemed almost incredulous when I rang 
you up,” she continued, turning to Penteney, “but 
there’s no doubt about it—they’ve been kidnapped, 
under my very windows. And we haven’t a single 
clue, a trace of any sort.” 

“So far, you mean,” answered Penteney, coolly. 
“But come!—let me hear all about it. What 
are the details?” 

“Details!” exclaimed Lady Riversreade. “We 
don’t know any details! All I know is this—my 
sister came here from Hampshire yesterday evening, 
to stay a few days. This morning, after we had 
breakfasted, she and Miss Featherstone set out across 
the park for the Home, leaving me here—I meant to 
follow in a few minutes. I did follow!—I wasn’t 
ten minutes behind them. But when I got to the 
Home, they weren’t there, and Mitchell, the man at 
the door, said they hadn’t come. They didn’t come! 
Eventually, I came back here, to find out if some¬ 
thing had happened and they’d returned by some 
other way. But they weren’t here. Then I began 
to make some enquiry. One of the housemaids who’d 
been looking out of a top window said she’d seen a 
car go at a great rate down the middle drive in the 


The London Road 


247 


direction of the high road soon after Madame Lis- 
torelle and Miss Featherstone left the house. And 
of course there’s no doubt about it—they’ve been 
carried off in that! This is more work of that 
man Baseverie’s!” 

“You said something over the ’phone about strange 
men being seen in the car,” remarked Penteney. 

“Oh, that?—yes, the same girl said she thought 
she could see two men sitting in the car,” answered 
Lady Riversreade. “Of course they’d be strange.” 

Penteney turned to the policemen, at the same 
time tapping Hetherwick’s arm. “I think we’d bet¬ 
ter go across the park and see for ourselves if there 
are any signs of a struggle at any particular place,” 
he said. “I don’t think either Madame Listorelle 
or Miss Featherstone likely persons to be carried off 
without making a fight for it. Have you been across 
the grounds yet?” he added, to the elder of the two 
men. “I mean, by the path they took?” 

“Not yet, sir—we’ve only just arrived,” answered 
the man. 

“Come along, then,” said Penteney. He lingered 
a moment as Hetherwick and the policeman left the 
hall, and said a few words to Lady Riversreade; 
then he hurried out and headed his party. “This 
way,” he continued, leading Hetherwick along the 
terrace—“I know the usual route to the Home— 


248 Black Money 

plain sailing from here to there, except at one spot, 
and there I conclude whatever has happened did 
happen!” 

Hetherwick paid particular attention to the route 
along which Penteney led his party. The path went 
straight across the park, from the end of the terrace 
at the Court to near the front entrance of the Home, 
and from the Court itself it looked as if there was 
no break in it. But about half-way between the two 
houses there was an important break which could 
not be seen until pedestrians were close upon it. 
Transecting the park from its southern to its north¬ 
ern boundaries was a sunk roadway—the middle 
drive to which Lady Riversreade had referred— 
gained from the park above, on each side, by orna¬ 
mental steps. Whatever happened in that roadway, 
Hetherwick saw at once, could not have been seen 
from the higher ground above, save by anyone close 
to its edge. But two or three hundred yards or so 
from the steps which made a continuation of the 
path, the embankments of the sunk road flattened 
out into the lower stretches of the Park, and there 
the road itself could be seen from the top windows 
of the Court, and from those of the Home also. 

Penteney paused at the top of the ornamental 
steps. 

“If these two ladies have been carried off, as they 


The London Road 


249 


certainly seem to have been,” he said, turning to his 
companions, “this is the spot! Now just let me 
explain the lay of the land. The main road edges 
the park at the northern end, as you all know. But 
there is a good road at the southern extremity, and 
the sunk road runs down from it. A car could come 
down from there, be pulled up here, and kept wait¬ 
ing until the two ladies came along. They would 
have to descend these steps, cross the road, and 
ascend the steps on the other bank to get to the 
other half of the park. Now suppose they’re forced 
into a car at the foot of the steps—the car goes 
off for the main road and gets clear away within 
a minute or two of the kidnapping taking place! 
There’s the difficulty! The thing would be easy to 
do—granted force. Probably, the two captives were 
forced into the car at the point of revolvers.” 

“That’s about it, sir!” agreed the elder of the 
policemen. “No choice in the matter, poor things! 
And as you say, they’d be in and off—miles off!— 
before they fairly knew what had happened.” 

“Come down and let’s see the roadway,” said 
Penteney. 

But there was nothing to see at the foot of the 
steps. The road, like all roads and paths on the 
Riversreade Court property, was in a perfect state 
of repair, and there was scarcely a grain of dust 


250 Black Money 

on its spick-and-span, artificially treated and 
smoothed surface: certainly there were no signs of 
any struggle. 

“That’s how it’s been, you may depend upon it,” 
observed Penteney to Hetherwick, as they looked 
about. “The men were waiting here with revolvers. 
They’d force them into the car, and get in after 
them; a third man, an accomplice, would drive off. 
If only we had some more definite information about 
the car and its occupants!” 

“There’s an old chap coming down the road who 
seems to have his eye on us,” remarked Hetherwick, 
looking round. “He may have something to tell. 
After all, some of the people hereabouts must have 
seen the car!” 

The old man, evidently a labourer, came nearer, 
looking enquiringly from one to the other. He had 
the air of one who can tell something on occasion. 

“Be you gentlemen a-enquirin’ about a moty-car 
what was round here this mornin’ ?” he asked, as he 
came up. “I hear there was somebody a-askin’ ques¬ 
tions that way, so I just come down-along, like.” 

“We are,” answered Penteney. “Do you know 
anything?” 

The old man pointed up the sunk road to a part 
of the park where it was lost amongst trees and 
coppices. 


The London Road 


251 


“Lives up there, I do,” he said. “My cottage, it 
be just behind they trees, t’other side o’ the road 
what this here runs into: my garden, it runs down 
to the edge o’ that road. And when I was a-gar- 
denin’ this morning—mebbe ’bout half-past-nine 
o’clock, that was—I sees a moty-car what come 
along from your way, and turns into this here sunk 
road. Mebbe that’s what you’re a-talking’ ’bout?” 

“No doubt,” agreed Penteney. “And we’re much 
obliged to you. Now what sort of a car was it? 
Closed, or open?” 

“Oh, ’twas closed up, same as one o’ them old 
cabs what us don’t see no more now,” said the old 
man. “But I see inside it, for all that. Two gentle¬ 
men.” 

“Two gentlemen, eh?” repeated Penteney. “Just 
so. And a driver outside, of course.” 

“Oh, aye, there was a driver outside, to be sure. 
In livery, he was—like a gentleman’s servant. Smart 
feller!” 

“Could you describe the gentlemen?” 

“No, surely—two gentlemen, though; a-sitting 
back, I sees ’em! And sees the moty-car, too, turn 
down this here very road.” 

“What sort of car was it?” enquired Penteney. 
“What colour was it painted?” 

“Well, now, you beats me! It med be a sort o’ 


252 


Black Money 

greyish colour—or again, it med be a sort o’ aller, 
lightish yaller, or it med be drabbish—I could’n 
’zac’ly go to for say what it was, proper. But a 
lightish colour.” 

“Lightish—grey, yellow, or drab—something of 
that sort?” 

“Surely! Her wasn’t a dark ’un, anyhow. But 
the feller what drove, now he were in a dark livery 
—I took partic’lar notice of he, ’cause he was so 
smart as never was. Green! that was his colour, and 
gold lace. Looked like a duke, he did! And I 
thought, hearin’ as there was them in the park as 
was enquirin’, like, as ’ow I’d come and tell ’ee.” 

Penteney rewarded the informant with some sil¬ 
ver, and turned to his companions with a shake of 
the head. 

“A light-coloured car with two men in it, driven 
by a man who wore a dark-green livery with gold 
lace on it!” he remarked. “That’s about all we’re 
likely to get. And—if this has been a carefully- 
planned affair, the chauffeur would change his livery 
before they’d gone far—slip another coat on! How¬ 
ever-” 

They went back to the Court, consulting together; 
obviously, there was nothing to do but to send out 
enquiries in the surrounding country. Penteney was 
sceptical about the success of these. 


The London Road 


253 


“When one considers the thousands of cars to be 
seen in any given area during one morning,” he said, 
“how can one expect that anybody, even rustics, 
should give special attention to any particular one? 
There’s no doubt about it—they’ve got clean away!” 

It seemed as if nothing could be done but to give 
the kidnapping full publicity through the police and 
the press. In the neighbourhood of the Court no¬ 
body beyond the housemaid and the old cottager 
appeared to have seen the car and its occupants. But 
during the afternoon, as Hetherwick and Penteney 
were about to set out for London, a man came to 
the house and asked to see Lady Riversreade. Lady 
Riversreade went out to him; the two men accom¬ 
panied her, and found at the hall-door an elderly, 
respectable-looking fellow who had driven up in a 
light cart. He had heard, he said, of what had 
happened at Riversreade Court that morning, and 
he believed he could tell something, for he was sure 
that he had seen a car, such as that the police were 
enquiring after, pass his house. 

“And where is that?” asked Lady Riversreade. 

“About two miles the other side of Dorking, my 
lady, on the London road. I’m a market gardener 
—name of Thomas Chillam. And I was outside 
my garden gate this morning, about, as near as I 
can reckon, ten o’clock, when I saw a car, light- 


254 Black Money 

coloured, coming from Dorking, at a particularly 
high speed—a good deal faster that it had a right 
to do! I watched it, careful, my lady. But just as 
it got near to my place, there was a man drove some 
sheep out of a by-lane, a few yards past my garden 
and the car was obliged to slow down. And so I 
saw the folks in it/ 

“Yes?” said Lady Riversreade. “And—who was 
in it?” 

“There was a couple of men, my lady, on the 
front seat, and a couple of ladies in the back. Of 
course, it was a closed car, but I saw 'em, plain 
enough, all four. It seemed to me as if they were 
all either quarrelling or having high words—they 
were all talking together, anyway. But though the 
car had slowed down ’cause of the sheep, it was still 
moving at a fair pace, and of course they were past 
and gone, London way, in a minute, as it were. All 
the same, I saw ’em clearly enough to see that one 
of the men inside was a man I’ve seen before.” 

“About here?” exclaimed Lady Riversreade. 

“No, my lady,” answered Chillam. “In London. 
It’s this way, my lady—me and my missis, we’ve a 
grown-up daughter what’s in service in London— 
Grosvenor Gardens. Now and again we go up to 
see her, and stop a night or two close by. And of 
course we take a look round. Now I’ve seen that 


The London Road 


255 


man two or three times about Victoria Station way 
—I knew him at once when I saw him this morning, 
and-” 

“Just tell us what he’s like, will you?” interrupted 
Penteney. “As near as you can.” 

“Well, sir, I ain’t good at that, but he’s a tall, 
good-looking, smart-dressed gentleman, with a beard 
and moustache—taller nor what you and that other 
gentleman is, sir. I seen him in Victoria Street— 
mebbe it was his height made me notice him.” 

“And you’re sure that was the man you saw in 
the car this morning?” 

“Make no doubt on it, sir!—I’m as certain as 
that I see yourself. Oh, yes!” 

Hetherwick put in a question. 

“The second man in the car ? Did you notice him ? 
Can you remember him?” 

Chillam reflected for awhile. 

“I remember that he was a white-faced chap,” he 
said at last. “Wore a top-hat, silk.” 

When Chillam had gone away, Hetherwick turned 
to his companions. 

“That sounds like Ambrose, for one man, and 
Baseverie for the other,” he said. “What devilry 
are they up to now ? Penteney!—we must get back 
to London.” 

An hour later they pulled up at Matherfield’s 



256 Black Money 

headquarters and went in to find him. Matherfield, 
brought to them after some search, rubbed his hands 
at sight of them. 

“Come at the right moment!” he exclaimed. “I’ve 
got news—of Ambrose!” 


CHAPTER XX 


CONVERGING TRACKS 


IV MATHERFIELD expected his visitors to show 
deep interest if not positive enthusiasm in 
respect of this announcement and he stared wonder- 
ingly on seeing that their faces showed nothing but 
gloom and concern. 

“But you—you look as if you’d had bad news!” 
he exclaimed. “Something gone wrong?” 

“I forgot that we might have telephoned you from 
Riversreade Court,” replied Hetherwick, suddenly 
realising that Matherfield seemed to know nothing 
of the day’s happening. “But I thought the Dorking 
police would do that. Gone wrong!—yes, and it 
may have to do with Ambrose—we’ve heard news 
that seems to fit in with him. But it’s this,” he went 
on to give Matherfield a brief account of the day’s 
events. “There you are!” he concluded. “I’ve no 
doubt whatever that Baseverie and Ambrose are in 
at this—kidnapping in broad daylight. Matherfield! 
—you’ve got to find them!” 

Matherfield had listened with close attention to 


17 


257 


258 Black Money 

Hetherwick’s story and now he looked from him 
to Penteney; from Penteney to a printed bill which 
lay on his desk at his side. 

“I think I see what all this is about,” he remarked, 
after a pause. “Those chaps think they’ve got—or 
they thought they got—Lady Riversreade! To hold 
for ransom, of course. They took Miss Hannaford 
because she chanced to be there. What they really 
kidnapped—and there’s more of that done than you 
gentlemen might think, I can tell you!—was Lady 
Riversreade’s sister. But now, however sisters— 
twin-sisters—may closely resemble each other, there 
comes a time when difference of identity’s bound to 
come out. By this time—perhaps long before— 
those men must have discovered that they laid hands 
on the wrong woman! And the question is—what 
would they do, then?” 

“It seems to me that the more immediate question 
is—Where are the two women?” exclaimed Hether- 
wick. “Think of their danger!” 

“Oh, well, Mr. Hetherwick, I don't suppose they’re 
in any personal danger,” answered Matherfield. 
“They’re in the hands of brigands, no doubt, but 
I don’t think there’ll be any maltreatment of them— 
set your mind at rest about that. They don’t do that 
sort of thing nowadays—it’s all done politely and 
with every consideration, I believe. As to where 


259 


Converging Tracks 

they are?—why, somewhere in London! And there 
are over seven millions of other people in London, 
and hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of inhab¬ 
ited houses!—a lot of needles in that bundle of 
hay, gentlemen!” 

“They’ve got to be found!” repeated Hetherwick 
doggedly. “You’ll have to set all your machinery 
to work! This can’t-” 

“Wait a bit, Hetherwick,” interrupted Penteney. 
He turned to Matherfield. “You said you had news 
of this man Ambrose? What news?” 

Matherfield tapped the printed bill which lay on 
his desk. 

“I had that circulated broadcast early this morn¬ 
ing,” he answered. “And then, of course, the news¬ 
papers have helped. Well, not so very long before 
you came in, I was called to the telephone by a man 
named Killiner, who told me he was the landlord 
of the Green Archer Tavern, in Wood Street, West¬ 
minster-” 

“Westminster again!” exclaimed Hetherwick. 
“That seems to be the centre-point!” 

“And a very good thing to have a centre-point, 
Mr. Hetherwick,” said Matherfield. “When things 
begin to narrow down, one gets some chance. Well, 
I was saying—this man rang me up to say that if 
I’d go down there he thought he could give me some 



260 Black Money 

information relative to the bill about the missing 
man. What he’d got to say, he said, was too long 
for a telephone talk. I answered that I’d be with 
him shortly, and I was just setting off when you 
arrived. Of course, I don’t know what he can tell 
—it may be nothing, it may be something. Perhaps 
you gentlemen would like to go with me and hear 
what it is?” 

“I would, but I mustn’t,” replied Penteney. '‘I 
must go to my office and hear if Lady Riversreade 
or the local police have had any fresh news. Keep 
in touch with me, though, Matherfield—let me know 
what you hear.” 

‘Til go with you,” said Hetherwick. “Westmin¬ 
ster !” he muttered again, when Penteney had gone. 
“It looks as if this man Ambrose was known in that 
district.” 

“Likely!” assented Matherfield. “But you know, 
Mr. Hetherwick, there are some queer spots in that 
quarter! People who know the purely ornamental 
parts of Westminster, such as the Abbey, and the 
Houses of Parliament, and Victoria Street, and so 
on, don’t know that there are some fine old slums 
behind ’em! But I’ll show you when we get down 
there—we shall go through one or two savoury 
slices.” 

He was putting on his overcoat as he spoke, in 


26l 


Converging Tracks 

readiness for setting out, but before he had buttoned 
it, a constable entered with a card. 

“Wants to see you particularly, and at once,” he 
said. “Waiting outside.” 

“Bring him in—straight!” answered Matherfield. 
He pushed the card along his desk in Hetherwick’s 
direction. “Lord Morradale!” he exclaimed. “Who’s 
he?” 

“The man who’s engaged to Madame Listorelle,” 
replied Hetherwick in an undertone. “Hampshire 
magnate.” 

Matherfield turned expectantly to the open door. 
A shortish, stoutish, person, who looked more like a 
typical city man, prosperous and satisfied, came bus¬ 
tling in and gave Hetherwick and his companion a 
sharp, enquiring glance which finally settled on 
Matherfield. 

“Mr. Matherfield?” he asked. “Just so! I’m 
Lord Morradale—oh, of course I sent in my card 
—just so! Well, Mr. Matherfield, I’ve had an extra¬ 
ordinary communication from Lady Riversreade— 
she telephoned to my house in Hill Street this morn¬ 
ing, but I was down in the City, and didn’t hear of 
her message till late this afternoon—she says her 
sister, Madame Listorelle, has been kidnapped! Kid¬ 
napped—preposterous!” 

“I’m afraid it’s neither preposterous nor impro- 


262 Black Money 

bable, my lord,” answered Matherfield. “I’m quite 
sure Madame Listorelle has been kidnapped, and 
Lady Riversreade’s secretary, Miss Featherstone, 
with her. Fve been down at Riversreade Court 
most of the day, and there’s no doubt about it—the 
two ladies were carried off from there by three men 
in a fast car which was driven towards London. 
That’s a fact!” 

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed Lord Morradale. 
“In broad daylight!—twentieth century, too. And 
is there no clue?” 

“None so far, my lord. Of course, we’ve noised 
the affair as much as possible, and all our people 
are on the lookout. But it’s a difficult case,” con¬ 
tinued Matherfield. “The probability is that the 
ladies have been rushed to some house in London 
and that they’re there in captivity. Of course, one 
theory is that the kidnappers took Madame Listorelle 
„ for her sister—they meant to get Lady Riversreade 
and hold her for ransom.” 

Lord Morradale pursed up his lips. Then he 
rubbed his chin. Then he shook his head—finally, 
he gave Hetherwick a shrewd glance, eyeing him 
from head to foot. 

“Um!” he said. “Ah! This gentleman?—not 
one of your people, I think, Matherfield?” 

“No, my lord. This gentleman is Mr. Hether- 


Converging Tracks 263 

wick, of the Middle Temple, who is interested 
very deeply in certain matters connected with the 
affair. Mr. Hetherwick has been down at Rivers- 
reade with me, and your lordship can speak freely 
before him.” 

Lord Morradale gave Hetherwick a friendly, 
knowing nod. Then he glanced at the door—and 
Matherfield made haste to close it. 

“Thank ’ee,” said Lord Morradale. “Just as well 
to be in private. Um!—I think I’d better tell you 
something, Matherfield. I daresay that’s a reason¬ 
able supposition of yours—that these villains took 
Madame Listorelle for her sister. But I don’t think 
they did—I think they knew very well whom they 
were seizing. Mind you!—they’d have seized Lady 
Riversreade, too, if she’d happened to be there. But 
it was Madame they were after!” 

“If your lordship would explain—” suggested 
Matherfield. 

“I’m going to—it’s what I came here for: I think 
I can just put you on the right scent. You may have 
heard that Madame Listorelle and I are about to 
marry?—Very well, I, accordingly, knew a good deal 
about her affairs. Now, I don’t know whether you 
know or not that Madame Listorelle is actively con¬ 
cerned—or has been—in buying and selling jewels 
on commission?—that’s her specialty.” 


264 Black Money 

“Heard something of it, my lord,” replied Mather¬ 
field. 

“Very well—now, quite recently, Madame Lis- 
torelle bought up in Paris a magnificent set of 
stones which had been at one time the property of 
a member of the Russian Imperial family. She 
brought them here to London, meaning, shortly, 
either to send or take them personally to America to 
her customer. This deal, unfortunately, got into the 
papers. Now it’s my belief that these fellows have 
kidnapped Madame in order to get hold of these 
jewels. Do you see? ,, 

“Ah!” exclaimed Matherfield. “I see, my lord! 
That puts a new aspect on the case. But—surely 
Madame Listorelle wouldn’t have the stones on 
her?” 

Lord Morradale winked—deliberately—at both his 
hearers. 

“No!” he said. “No!—she wouldn’t. But the 
scoundrels would figure on this—that when she was 
fairly in their power, they would be in a position 
to make her give them up—to force her, in short, to 
disclose their whereabouts. If they’re desperate vil¬ 
lains, not likely to stick at anything, I think they’ll 
have forced Madame to compliance—and in doing so 
give you a chance to lay hands on them!” 

“How, my lord?” asked Matherfield, eagerly. 


Converging Tracks 265 

Lord Morradale gave the two men a confidential 
glance. 

“This way,” he replied. “The jewels were 
deposited, for safety, by Madame Listorelle at the 
Imperial Safe Deposit. She rents a safe there. 
Now, don’t you see what I’m suggesting? These 
men may force her to give one of them the necessary 
key and a signed order to the Safe people to let the 
bearer open Madame’s safe and take away a certain 
case in which the jewels are packed. That’s what I 
think will be done. And what you ought to do is to 
see the Imperial Safe Deposit officials at once, warn 
them of what I suggest may happen, and take your 
own means of watching for such a messenger arriv¬ 
ing, and for tracking him when he departs. Eh?” 

“Or arresting him, there and then,” said Mather- 
field. 

“No, I shouldn’t!” declared Lord Morradale. “I’m 
not a policeman, ye know, but I can give a hint to 
one. Instead of arresting the man—who, you must 
remember, will be sure to have Madame’s written 
authority on him (that is, if things turn out as I 
suggest) I should carefully follow him. For—he’ll 
probably go back to where Madame and the young 
lady, Miss What’s-her-name, are detained! Eh?” 

Matherfield shook his head. 

“I should doubt that, my lord!” he answered. “If 


266 Black Money 

things work out as you suggest—and it’s a highly 
probable theory—that’s about the last thing he would 
do! Once the jewels were in his possession-” 

“You forget this,” interrupted Lord Morradale. 
“They may use a catspaw! Eh ?” 

“Well, there’s that in it, certainly,” assented 
Matherfield. “However, I’ll see that the Imperial 
Safe Deposit people are warned and that this 
entrance is carefully watched to-morrow morning. 
But—the thing may have been done already!—there’s 
been plenty of time since the ladies were carried off.” 

“No!” said Lord Morradale. “Nothing’s hap¬ 
pened so far. I called in at the Imperial Safe 
Deposit as I came here—they had neither seen 
Madame Listorelle nor had any communication from 
her to-day. And now the place is closed for the 
night.” 

“Did you warn them, then?” enquired Mather¬ 
field. 

“I didn’t. I thought it best to see you first,” 
replied Lord Morradale. “The warning and the rest 
of it will come best from you.” 

“Very good, my lord—much obliged to your lord- 
ship for looking in,” said Matherfield. “We’ll keep 
you posted up in anything that happens—at Hill 
Street. Now,” he continued, when Lord Morradale 
had left the office—“we’ll get along to Westminster, 



Converging Tracks 267 

Mr. Hetherwick, to the Green Archer and its land¬ 
lord, Killiner.” 

The Green Archer proved to be a respectable 
tavern which boasted a saloon bar—behind the glass 
screens of this they found a middle-aged, sharp-eyed 
man, who at sight of his visitors, immediately opened 
the door of a parlour in the rear and ushered them 
into privacy. He pointed silently to a copy of the 
bill asking for news of Ambrose. 

“Aye!” said Matherfield. “Just so. I had your 
message. You think you know this man?” 

“From this description of him in that bill, yes,” 
replied the landlord. “I think he’s a man—gentle¬ 
man by all appearances—who used to come into my 
saloon bar pretty regularly during this last six or 
nine months. Since the end of last summer, I should 
say, up to about three weeks, or so, ago.” 

“Not since then, eh?” asked Matherfield. “Three 
weeks?” 

“About that. No—he hasn’t been in for quite 
that. But up to then, he’d be in, well, four or five 
days a week. Handsome, fine man—in fact, you’ve 
described him exactly, there. I never knew who he 
was—used to pass the time o’ day with him, you 
know, but that was all. He always came in about 
the same time—one to one-thirty. He’d have some¬ 
times a glass of bitter ale and a sandwich or two; 


268 


Black Money 

sometimes a whisky-and-soda and two or three bis- 
cuits. Stood and had his snack, and went away. 
Never talked much. I took him for some gentleman 
that had business hereabouts, and just wanted a bite 
and a sup in the middle of the day, and turned in 
here for it. But I don’t know what business he 
could be concerned in, round here. He hadn’t the 
tradesman’s look on him, you understand: I should 
have said he was a professional man of some sort. 
Always very w'ell dressed, you know—smart. How¬ 
ever, I did notice one peculiar thing about him.” 

“What, now?” asked Matherfield. “It all helps!” 

“Well,” said the landlord—“I noticed that his 
hands and fingers were stained—all sorts of colours. 
Sometimes it was more noticeable than at others. 
But there it was.” 

“Um!” remarked Matherfield. He exchanged a 
knowing glance with Hetnerwick. And when, a 
few minutes later, they left the tavern, he turned to 
him with an air of assurance. “I’m beginning to 
feel the end!” he said. “Feel it, if I don’t see it. 
Stained fingers, eh?—we’ve heard of them before, 
Mr. Hetherwick. And I’ll tell ye what it is—some¬ 
where about this very spot there’s some place where 
men are dabbling—secretly I should think—with 
chemicals, and Ambrose is one of ’em, and perhaps 
Baseverie’s another, and it was there that Hanna- 


269 


Converging Tracks 

ford and that man Granett had been that night, and 
where they were poisoned—and there, too, no doubt, 
these two ladies are at this minute! Well—come to 
my place first thing in the morning. ,, 

Hetherwick, at a loss what to do further that 
night, went away and dined, and that done, strolled 
home to his chambers. There was a light in his 
parlour, and when he opened the door he found 
Mapperley, evidently awaiting him, and with Map- 
perley a curly-headed, big-nosed, beady-eyed young 
Jew. 


CHAPTER XXI 


THE ORDER IN WRITING 


¥ TETHERWICK realised at once that Map- 

* perley had news, and was waiting there to 
communicate it. But he looked not so much at 
Mapperley as at Mapperley’s companion. Map- 
perley as Hethenvick had remarked to more than 
one person in the course of these proceedings con¬ 
cealed his sharpness under an unusually common¬ 
place exterior—he looked, as a rule, like a young man 
whose ideas rarely soared above a low level. But 
the Jew was of a different aspect—Hetherwick was 
not quite sure whether he was rat or ferret There 
was subtlety and craft written all over him, from 
his bright beady eyes to his long, thin, dirty fingers, 
and before Mapperley spoke, his employer felt sure 
that in this son of Israel the clerk had found a 
valuable associate. 

‘‘Hullo, Mapperley!” exclaimed Hetherwick. 
“Waiting for me? You’ve some news, I suppose?” 

Mapperley, grave and formal, pointed a finger at 
the Jew. 


270 


The Order in Writing 271 

“Mr. Isidore Goldmark, Sir,” he said. “Friend 
of mine. I got him to give me a bit of assistance in 
this Baseverie and Vivian affair. The fact is, Sir, 
he knows Vivian’s—don’t you, Issy?” 

“Thome!” replied Mr. Goldmark with a grin. 

“And he knows Baseverie, too,” continued Map- 
perley. “By sight, anyhow. So I got him—for a 
consideration—to watch for Baseverie’s next ap¬ 
pearance on that scene, and then, when he did come, 
to keep an eye on him—trick him, in fact. And 
Issy’s seen him to-night, Mr. Hetherwick, and fol¬ 
lowed him. Then Issy came to me, and I brought 
him here.” 

“Good!” said Hetherwick. “Sit down, both of 

you, and I’ll hear about it.” He dropped into his 

own easy chair and again regarding the Jew decided 

that he was probably a creditable witness. “What 
* 

do you do at Vivian’s?” he asked. “Employed 
there?” 

Mr. Goldmark glanced at Mapperley and smiled 
knowingly. Mapperley nodded. 

“All confidential, Issy,” he said reassuringly. 
“Going no further.” 

“Of course this is all confidential—and secret,” 
remarked Hetherwick. “I only want to know the 
precise connection between Vivian’s and Mr. 
Goldmark.” 


272 Black Money 

“It’th a thort of themi-official, mithter,” answered 
the Jew. “The fact ith, I do a bit o’ commith’on 
work for Vivian’th cuthtomerth turf, you know. 
Tho’—I’m in and out of an evening. Thee?” 

“I see,” said Hetherwick. “All right! And you 
know Baseverie?” 

“Ath well ath I know my own notlie,” replied Mr. 
Goldmark. 

“How long have you known him?” 

“Thome time.” 

“Do you know what he is?” 

“Ain't an idea, mithter—and nobody elthe that I 
knowth of! Liv’th on hith wit’th, I should thay, if 
you athk me. Wrong’un!” 

“Nor where he lives?” 

“No, mithter! All I knowth ith that he conTth 
to Vivianth—now and then.” 

“And you saw him to-night ?” 

“I did, mithter—to-night ath ever wath!” 

“What time was that?” 

“About eight o’clock, mithter—near ath I can fix 
it.” 

“Well, what happened?” 

“Thith, mithter. He came in about eight, ath I 
thay. I wath there, doing a bit o’ bithneth with 
another cuthmur. Batheverie, he didn’t thtop. He 
wath’nt in the plathe three minuteth, and while he 


The Order in Writing 273 

wath in he theemed—to me—to be a bit fidgety— 
thuthpithious, like. Looked round and about— 
cautiouth. Then he went—and I followed him. 
According to inthructionth from Mapperley then.” 

“When did he go?” 

“Well, mithter, IT1 give you the particularth—in 
full: when I theth out on a job o’ that thort I do 
it proper. He turned out o’ Candlethtick Pathage 
into the Lane, and he had a drink at a bar there. 
Then he went to Trafalgar Square Tube. I wath 
clothe behind him when he booked-” 

“A moment. Does he know you?” 

“May jutht know me by thite, mithter, but not 
enough to exthite any thuthpithion in hith mind if he 
thaw me there behind him. I never had no truck 
with him—never thpoke to him.” 

“Well, go on. Where did he book to? 

“Warwick Avenue, mithter. Tho did I—of 
courth. When we got there, I followed him out— 
at a thafe dithtance. He turned down to the Canal, 
crothed the bridge, and went down to Thant Mary’th 
Manthion’th. And there he went in.” 

Hetherwick glanced at Mapperley. Mapperley 
permitted himself to wink at his , employer— 
respectfully, but knowingly. 

“Went into St. Mary’s Mansions, eh?” said 
Hetherwick. “Walked straight in?” 



274 Black Money 

“Straight in, mithter—front entranth. I thee him, 
from acroth the road, talking to the man in livery— 
porter or whatever he hith. I could thee through 
the glath doorth. Then I thee both of 'em go up in 
the lift. Tho I waited about a bit, jutht to thee if 
he’d come out. He did.” 

“Soon?” asked Hetherwick. 

“He wath inthide about ten minuteth. Then he 
came out. Alone. Thith time he went in t’other 
direction. I followed him acroth Paddington Green 
to Edgware Road Tube, and there—well, to tell you 
the truth, mithter, there I lotht him! There wath a 
lot o’ people about, and I made thure he’d be going 
thouth. But he mutht ha’ gone wetht. Anyway, I 
lotht him altogether.” 

“Well—I think you saw enough to be of help,” 
said Hetherwick. “Now—just keep this to yourself, 
Goldmark.” He motioned Mapperley into another 
room, gave him money for his assistant, and waited 
until the Jew had gone, shown out by the clerk. 
“Eleven o’clock!” he remarked, glancing at his 
watch as Mapperley came back. “Mapperley!—we’re 
going out—to St. Mary’s Mansions. And after 
we’ve been there, and made a call, you’d better come 
back here with me and take a shake-down for the 
night—I shall want you in the morning, unless I’m 
mistaken.” 


275 


The Order in Writing 

It was one of Mapperley’s chief virtues that he 
was always ready to go anywhere and do anything, 
and he at once accompanied Hetherwick to the top 
of Middle Temple Lane, found a taxi-cab within 
five minutes, and proposed himself to sit up and 
shake-down that night and the next, if necessary. 

“Scent’s getting hot, I think, sir,” he remarked as 
they drove off, after bidding the driver carry them to 
Paddington Green. “Things seem to be coming to 
a head.” 

“Yes—but I don’t think you know everything,” 
answered Hetherwick. He proceeded to give the 
clerk an epitomised account of the day’s doings as 
they had related to himself, concluding with Mather- 
field’s theory as expressed after leaving the Green 
Archer. “You’re a smart chap, Mapperley,” he 
added. “What do you think?” 

“I see Matherfield’s point,” answered Mapperley. 
“I can follow his line. He thinks like this—Hanna- 
ford, when he came to London, wanted to get rid, 
advantageously, of that formula of his about a new 
ink. He got into touch with Ambrose, whom, of 
course, he’d known before, at Sellithwaite. Ambrose 
introduced him to some men who deal or dabble in 
chemicals, of whom one, no doubt, is Baseverie, and 
who seem to have a laboratory or something of that 
sort somewhere in the Westminster district. On the 


276 Black Money 

night of the murder Ambrose met Hannaford, by 
appointment, at Victoria, and took him there. 
Probably, Hannaford left the sealed packet—opened 
by that time—with these fellows. Probably, too, 
while there he told them—jokingly, very likely— 
what he’d discovered, from the picture in the papers, 
about the identity of Mrs. Whittingham and 
Madame Listorelle. And now comes in—Granett!” 
Hetherwick gave an exclamation that denoted two 
or three things—surprise, for one. 

“Ah!” he said. “Granett! To be sure!—I’d 
forgotten Granett!” 

“I hadn’t,” remarked Mapperley, with a cynical 
laugh. “Granett—and his murder—is an essential 
factor. What I think is this—We know that Hanna¬ 
ford met Ambrose at Victoria Station that all-im¬ 
portant evening. Ambrose, without doubt, took him 
to the place I hinted at just now—the exact location 
of which is a mystery. I think Hannaford stopped 
there until late in the evening. But—I also think 
he went back again! With—Granett!” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “I see!” 

“We know,” continued Mapperley, “that Granett 
went that evening to see the chemist who gave in¬ 
formation about him; we know, too, that he and the 
chemist went and had a drink together, and parted at 
about closing time, Granett then, according to the 


The Order in Writing 277 

chemist, going towards Victoria Street. Now I think 
that Granett then met Hanna ford—accidentally. 
They’d known each other in Sellithwaite. They 
talked—Granett told Hanna ford he was down on 
his luck. Hannaford, evidently, was a kind-hearted 
man, and I think he did two things out of kindness 
for Granett. He gave him that five-pound note-” 

“That was got at Vivian’s!” interrupted Hether- 
wick, quickly. 

“To be sure!” assented Mapperley. “But we 
know that Hannaford had been at Vivian’s—with 
Baseverie—undoutedly. Taken there by Baseverie 
—which makes me certain that for two or three 
days before his death he’d been in touch with both 
Baseverie and Ambrose. Hannaford got that fiver 
in change at Vivian’s. And he gave it to Granett, 
on hearing his story. But he did something else— 
something that was far more important—that is far 
more important—to us!” 

“What?” asked Hethervvick. 

“He turned back to the place he’d just left, and 
took Granett with him!” answered Mapperley with 
confidence. “He knew Granett was a trained and 
qualified chemist: he thought he could get him a 
job with these men who, presumably, were going 
to take up his own invention. It would be little more 
than half-past ten then. Where else then at this 



27B Black Money 

place are Hannaford and Granett likely to have 
been between that time and the time at which 
they got into your carriage at St. James's Park? 
Of course they were there!—with Ambrose and 
Baseverie.” 

“As you put it—highly probable,” said Hether- 
wick. “Two and a half hours!—doing what?” 

“Ah, now we come to the real thing!” exclaimed 
Mapperley. “My own belief is that Hannaford was 
fatally poisoned when he left these two men the 
first time! They’d two objects in poisoning him— 
or, to put it another way, he’d entrusted them vvitli 
two secrets—one about Madame Listorelle; the other 
about his invention. They wanted to keep both to 
themselves and to profit by both. The invention, 
no doubt, has considerable value—Hannaford 
believed it had, anyway. They thought they could 
blackmail Madame and her sister, Lady Riversreade. 
So—before Hannaford left them, the first time, 
they poisoned him—cleverly, subtly, devilishly— 
knowing that so many hours would elapse before 
the poison worked, and that by that time he’d be 
safe in bed at his hotel and would die in his sleep. 
But—he went back to them again, and took another 
man with him! So—that man had to die, too!” 

Hetherwick thought awhile in silence. 

“All very good theory, Mapperley,” he said at 


The Order in Writing 279 

last. “But—it may be nothing but theory. Why 
did Granett run off at Charing Cross ?” 

“Because Granett knew that Ambrose lived in 
John Street, close by,” replied Mapperley, with 
promptitude. “He may have known it before: he 
may not have have known it until that evening. But 
—he knew it! Most likely he thought that Ambrose 
had returned home from the place in Westminster: 
Ambrose may have left there before Hannaford and 
Granett did. Anyway, we may be reasonably certain 
that when Granett left you with the dying or dead 
man, he ran off to Ambrose’s flat—a few minutes 
away.” 

“Why didn’t he come back?” demanded Hether- 
wick. “I’m only wanting to get at probabilities.” 

“I’ve thought of that, too,” replied Mapperley. 
“I think he found Ambrose out. But by that time, 
he’d had time to reflect. He knew something was 
wrong. He knew that if he went back, he’d find the 
police there, and would be questioned. He might 
be suspected. And so—he went home, with the bot¬ 
tle in which Ambrose had give him a drop of whisky 
for himself. And—died in his sleep, as they thought 
Hannaford would.” 

“Why should Ambrose have that bottle down at 
Westminster?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Why shouldn’t he?” retorted Mapperley. “A 


280 Black Money 

man who's taking a tonic takes it at least three times 
a day—regularly. He’d have his bottle with him. 
Probably there are several similar empty bottles 
there at that place.” 

“Where is that place?” exclaimed Hetherwick. 
“Where?” 

“Got to be found,” said Mapperley, as the cab 
came to a stand. “But—here’s this!” 

Hetherwick led his companion across Paddington 
Green and to the house from which he and Mather- 
field had watched the flats opposite. Late as it was, 
the lodging-house keeper was up, and lent a willing 
ear to Hetherwick’s request that he should go with 
him to his friend the caretaker’s of the Mansions. 
That functionary was at supper. He continued to 
sup as Hetherwick, morally supported by the lodg¬ 
ing-house man, explained matters to him, but at last 
he allowed his cheek to bulge with unswallowed 
food and turned a surprised and knowing eye on 
his principal visitor. 

“Blamed if I didn’t wonder whether it was all 
O. K., with that chap!” he exclaimed, banging the 
table with the haft of his knife. “For all he was 
quite the gentleman, I somehow suspicioned him! 
And yet, he’d a straight tale to tell—come here on 
Madame’s behalf, to get something for her out of 
her rooms, had her keys, and give me a note from 


28 i 


The Order in Writing 

her saying as how I was to allow the bearer to go 
up to her flat! What more could I expect—and 
what could I do—under the circs? I asks yer?” 

“Oh, he had a note, had he?” enquired Hether- 
wick. “In Madame’s writing?” 

The caretaker laid down his knife and thrusting 
his hand in his breast-pocket, drew forth an envelope 
and silently handed it over. It was an azure-tinted 
envelope, of a very good quality of paper, such as 
is only sold in high-class stationery shops, and the 
sheet inside matched it in tint and quality. But 
Hetherwick at once noticed something about that 
sheet; so, too, did Mapperley, peering at it from be¬ 
hind his elbow. About an inch and a half had been 
rather roughly cut off at the top: obviously some 
address had been engraved, or embossed, or printed 
on the missing portion. As for what was written 
on the sheet, it was little—a simple order that the 
caretaker should allow bearer to go into Madame 
Listorelle’s flat. 

“You recognised that as Madame’s handwriting?” 
suggested Hetherwick. 

“Oh, that’s her fist, right enough, that is!” re¬ 
plied the caretaker. “I knew it at once. And no 
wonder! I ain’t no scholard, not me!—but I knows 
enough to know that it ’ud puzzle one o’ them here 
forgers as ye reads about to imitate that there sort 


282 Black Money 

o’ writing—more like as it had been done with a 
wooden skewer than a Christian pen! Oh, that s 
hers.” 

Hetherwick handed the letter and envelope to Map- 
perley, who was holding out a hand. 

“Well,” he said. “I wish ye'd just let me have 
a look into Madame’s flat. There’s something seri¬ 
ously wrong, and-” 

“Oh, you can do that—’long as I’m with you,” 
said the caretaker readily. He rose and led the way 
to the left, and presently ushered them into a smart 
flat and turned on the electric light. “Don’t see 
nothing wrong here,” he observed. “The chap 
wasn’t here ten minutes, and he carried nothing 
heavy away, whatever he had in his pockets. 

Hetherwick and Mapperley looked round. Every¬ 
thing seemed correct and in order—the surround¬ 
ings were those of a refined and artistic woman, ob¬ 
viously one who loved order and system. But on a 
desk that stood in the centre of the sitting-room a 
drawer had been pulled open, and in front of it lay 
scattered a few sheets of Madame Listorelle’s private 
notepaper, with her engraved address and crest. 
Near by lay some envelopes, similarly marked. And 
with a sudden idea in his mind, Hetherwick picked 
up a sheet or two of the paper and a couple of en¬ 
velopes and put them in his pocket. 


The Order in Writing 283 

A few minutes later, once more in the cab which 
they had kept waiting, and on the way to Hill Street, 
whither Hetherwick had bidden the driver go next, 
Mapperley turned to his employer with a sly laugh, 
and held up something in the light of a street-lamp 
by which they were passing. 

“What’s that?” asked Hetherwick. 

“The order written by Madame Listorelle,” an¬ 
swered Mapperley chuckling. “The caretaker didn’t 
notice that I carried it off, envelope and all, under 
his very eyes! But I did—and here it is!” 

“What do you want to do with it?” demanded 
Hetherwick. “What’s your notion?” 

But Mapperley only chuckled again and without 
giving any answer restored the azure-tinted envelope 
and its contents to his pocket. 


CHAPTER XXII 

THE HIGHLY-RESPECTABLE SOLICITOR 

ORD MORRADALE, who kept up honest, 



*■— 1 country-squire habits even in London, had gone 
to bed when Hetherwick and Mapperlev arrived at 
his house, but he lost little time in making an ap¬ 
pearance in pyjamas and dressing-gown, and lis¬ 
tened eagerly to Hetherwick’s account of the recent 
transactions. 

“Force!” he muttered, nodding his head at each 
point of the story. “Force!—got it out of her by 
force. That’s, if the order’s genuine.” 

Mapperley produced the sheet of paper which he 
had filched under the caretaker’s eyes and silently 
handed it over. 

“Oh, that’s Madame Listorelle’s handwriting!” 
exclaimed Lord Morradale. “Hers, without doubt. 
Difficult to imitate, of course. Oh, yes—hers! 
Well, that proves what I’ve just said, Mr. Hether¬ 
wick—force! She’s in their power—with the 
young lady, Miss—Miss—Featherstone, to be sure 
—and they’ve made her write that. Next, they’ll 


Highly-Respectable Solicitor 285 

make her write an order on the Imperial Safe 
Deposit. We must be beforehand with them there. 
Early—early as possible in the morning. Meet 
me at Matherfield’s—I think he’s pretty keen. 
Bless me!—what a pack of villains! Now I won¬ 
der where, in all London, these unfortunate ladies 
are?” 

“That’s precisely what all this ought to help us to 
find out,” remarked Iietherwick. “I’m not so much 
concerned about the valuables these men are after, 
as about the safety of-” 

Lord Morradale gave him a quick, understanding 
glance. 

“Of Miss Featherstone, eh?” he said. “I see—I 
see! And I’m concerned, too, about Madame Lis- 
torelle. Well, this, as you say, ought to help. But 
look here—we must be cautious—very cautious! 
We mustn’t let Matherfield—you know what the 
police are—we mustn’t let him be too precipitate. 
Probably—if a man comes to the Safe place, he’ll go 
away from it to where these scoundrels are. We 
must follow—follow!” 

“I agree,” said Hetherwick. 

“Nine o’clock, then, at Matherfield’s,” concluded 
his lordship. “And may we have a strong scent, a 
rousing one, and a successful kill!” 

With this bit of sporting phraseology in their 



286 Black Money 

ears, Hetherwick and Mapperley returned to the 
Middle Temple and retired for the rest of the night, 
one to bed, the other to a shake-down on the sitting- 
room sofa. But when Hetherwick’s alarum clock 
awoke him at seven-thirty and he put his head into 
the next room to rouse the clerk, he found that Map¬ 
perley had vanished. The cushions, rugs, and blankets 
with which he had made himself comfortable for 
the night were all neatly folded and arranged—on 
the topmost was pinned a sheet of brief paper, with 
a message scrawled in blue pencil. 

“You won't want me this morning—off on an im¬ 
portant notion of my own. Look out for message 
f rom me about noon. M. ” 

Muttering to himself that he hadn’t the least idea 
as to what his clerk was about, Hetherwick made a 
hurried toilet, and an equally hurried breakfast, and 
hastened away to meet Matherfield and Lord Morra- 
dale. He found these two together, and with them a 
quiet, solemn-faced individual, clad in unusually 
sombre garments, whom Matherfield introduced as 
Detective-Sergeant Quigman. Matherfield went 
straight to business. 

“His lordship’s just told me of your adventure 
last night, Mr. Hetherwick,” he said, “and I’m be¬ 
ginning to get a sort of forecast of what’s likely to 
happen. It was, of course, Baseverie who went to 


Highly-Respectable Solicitor 287 

Madame’s flat last night—that’s settled. But what 
do you suppose he went for?” 

“Can’t say that I’ve worked that out,” answered 
Hetherwick with a glance at the others. “But I 
imagine that he went there to get say, certain keys— 
having forced Madame Listorelle to tell him where 
they were. The keys of her safe at the Deposit 
place, I should think.” 

“No!” replied Matherfield, shaking his head 
knowingly and with a sly smile at Quigman. “No, 
not that. I’ll tell you what he went for—a very 
simple thing. He went to get some of Madame’s 
private notepaper! He knew well enough that if 
he was to take an order on that Safe Deposit to al¬ 
low the bearer access to Madame’s safe it would 
have to be what the French, I believe, call en regie — 
eh? Written on her own notepaper in her own 
handwriting, and so on. See?” 

“I think you’re right, and I think he got it,” said 
Hetherwick. “A drawer in her desk, containing 
boxes of stationery had been pulled out, and some 
of its contents lay about the desk. As a matter of 
fact, though I scarcely know why I did it, I put 
some paper and some envelopes in my pocket—here 
they are! I had a faint idea that they might be 
use f ul—somehow. ’ ’ 

“Well, that’s the notion, depend on it,” asserted 


288 


Black Money 

Matherfield, glancing at the paper which Hetherwick 
produced. “I’ve no doubt that somebody, repre¬ 
senting Madame Listorelle, and bearing an authori¬ 
sation from her, written on her notepaper in her own 
writing, will present himself at the Imperial Safe 
Deposit this morning. But—it won’t be Baseverie 1 
And it won’t be Ambrose 1” 

“A stranger, eh ?” suggested Hetherwick. 

“We shall see. Now,” continued Matherfield, 
glancing at the clock, “we’ll be off to the scene of 
operations. This Imperial Safe Deposit is in 
Kingsway—Holborn end, and very fortunately sit¬ 
uated for our job, being close to the Tube station— 
there’ll be lots of people about there, and we shan’t 
attract attention. And this is the way of it—his.. 
lordship and myself will go into the Safe Deposit, 
see the people in charge, explain matters, and get 
them to tell us at once if and when the expected 

ambassador arrives. We shall let him-” 

“Or her,” interrupted Quigman, solemnly. 

“Just so, my lad—it might be a she,” assented 
Matherfield. “Quite likely! We shall let him or 
her get what is wanted from the safe and go away, 
closely followed by all four of us. While Lord 
Morradale and I are inside, you and Quigman, Mr. 
Hetherwick, will be outside, talking, casually. 
When we come out—and you’ll both keep a sharp 



Highly-Respectable Solicitor 289 

watch on the entrance hall—I’ll give you the office 
as to the particular person we’re following, and 
wherever that person goes, you two will go. But 
don’t come near us—we’ll keep one side of the 
street, you the other. If the person takes to a cab 
or a ’bus—well, we’ll have to do the same. But I’ve 
reasons for thinking he or she will stick to 
his feet!” 

“How do we go?—all together?” asked Hether- 
wick. “Because—it’s a mere idea—how do you 
know, Matherfield, that these people—there would 
appear to be more than one concerned—aren’t keep¬ 
ing an eye on you ?” 

“I’ve thought of that,” answered Matherfield. 
“No—we’re all going separately. It’s now nine- 
fifteen. That Imperial Safe Deposit doesn’t open its 
doors till ten—nobody can get in there until that 
time, anyway. We all go out of this office on our 
own hook. Each takes his own method of getting 
to the top of Kings way. As soon as I get there, I 
go straight in and ask for the manager. As soon 
as Lord Morradale gets there, he follows suit—he 
and I foregather in the manager’s room. As for 
you two, go how you like—fly, if it suits you—or 
wander round the side streets. But—you meet 
right opposite the Safe Deposit entrance at precisely 
ten o’clock, and under pretense of casual meeting 


290 Black Money 

and conversation keep your eyes on it, noticing 
everybody who goes in and comes out. That clear ? 
Then we all clear out—one by one.” 

Outside, and left to his own devices, Hetherwick 
walked a little way and then hailed a taxi-cab. He 
gave its driver a confidential smile. 

“You can just help me to employ forty minutes,” 
he said as he got in. “Drive round—anywhere you 
like—up and down—as long as you put me down 
at the corner of the Holborn Restaurant at precisely 
two minutes to ten. Got that?” 

The driver comprehended and began a leisurely 
journey round certain principal streets and thor¬ 
oughfares. Two minutes before ten he pulled up 
at the Holborn-Kingsway corner and gave his fare 
a grin. 

“Done it to the second, sir,” he announced, nod¬ 
ding at an adjacent clock. 

“Good man 1” said Hetherwick handing out some¬ 
thing over the registered fare. Then an idea struck 
him. “Look here!” lie continued, confidentially, “I 
—and another man—may have to follow somebody 
from here, presently. Just drive down the street 
here: keep your flag down, and wait—if I want you, 
I shall be close at hand.” 

The driver showed his understanding by a nod 
and a wink and moved a little distance off to the 


Highly-Respectable Solicitor 291 

kerbstone. Hetherwick walked slowly down the 
west side of Kingsway. And precisely as the clock 
struck ten he saw Lord Morradale come from one 
direction and enter the formidable-looking and just- 
opened door of the Safe Deposit, and Matherfield 
appear from the other: looking round again he was 
aware of the solemn-faced Quigman who sauntered 
round the comer of Parker Street and came towards 
him. Hetherwick went on to meet him. 

“There you are!” he said, doing a little acting in 
case any inimical eyes were on him. “To the min¬ 
ute! We’d better appear to be doing a bit of talk, 
eh? The others have just gone in.” 

“I saw ’em, sir,” replied Quigman, coming to a 
halt on the kerb, and affecting an interest pn any¬ 
thing rather than on what he was really working. 
“Ah! But the question is—when will they come 
out? Might be in a few minutes—so to speak. 
Mightn’t be for hours—as it were!” 

“You seem to be a melancholy chap,” observed 
Hetherwick. 

“Melancholy job!” muttered Quigman. “Watch¬ 
ing isn’t my line. But Matherfield—he particularly 
wanted me to be in at this.” 

“Why?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Peculiar knowledge of solicitors and their clerks 
in this part o’ London,” replied Quigman. “My 


292 Black Money 

line. Matherfield, he’s an idea that the order to 
open this safe’ll be presented by a solicitor.” 

'‘Good Lord!—has he?” exclaimed Hetherwick. 
“I wonder! But-” 

“Big help to these chaps, don’t you see, if they 
can make a solicitor do the cat’s paw work,” sug¬ 
gested Quigman. “Who’d suspect a solicitor of the 
High Court ? And as I know pretty nearly all of ’em 
—there’s one I know now coming up t’other side of 
the street,” he continued suddenly. “That tallish, 
thin, pale-faced chap—see him? Look at him with¬ 
out seeming to look. Now I wonder if he’s the party 
we want?” 

Hetherwick looked in the direction indicated. He 
saw a youngish, spectacled man in a silk hat, morn¬ 
ing coat, and the corresponding additions of pro¬ 
fessional attire, who was walking rapidly along 
from South to North. He was a very mild, gentle 
looking person, not at all the sort to be concerned 
in dark plots and mysterious aims, and Hetherwick 
said so. 

“Aye, well, you never know!” remarked Quig¬ 
man, lugubriously. “But as I say, I know him. Mr. 
Garrowell—Mr. Octavius Garrowell—solicitor, of 
St. Martin’s Lane, that is. Been in practice for him¬ 
self about four years or so. Nice young feller!— 
quiet. And he is going in there!—see ?” 



Highly-Respectable Solicitor 293 

Hetherwick saw. There were several people, men 
and women, entering the Safe Deposit just then, 
but Mr. Garrowell’s silk hat and sloping shoulders 
made him easily identifiable. 

“I daresay it’s him!” observed Quigman, with a 
sigh. “J us t the sort to be took in, he is! Innocent, 
unsuspecting sort o’ gentleman. However—it 
mayn’t be. Deal o’ people use these Safe Deposits 
nowadays.” 

Mr. Garrowell disappeared. The two watchers 
waited. Five, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes went by: 
then Mr. Gar ro well came out. He came out just as 
any man would come out after transacting his 
business, quietly. Nobody followed him; nobody 
seemed to be watching him—from the Safe Deposit. 
But Hetherwick noticed at once that whereas he had 
entered carrying nothing but an umbrella, he now 
carried a small square leather-covered box. With 
this in his left hand he crossed the roadway, and 
advanced straight towards Hetherwick and Quig¬ 
man. 

“No need to move, sir,” whispered the detective. 
“Take no notice—spot him, though.” 

Mr. Garrowell, seen at close quarters, looked to 
be a somewhat absent-minded gentleman. But chanc¬ 
ing to look up as he stepped on the pavement, his 
eyes encountered Quigman, who touched his hat. 


294 Black Money 

“Morning, Mr. Garrowell,” said the detective. 
“A very nice morning!” 

“Morning, Quigman,” responded Mr. Garrowell. 
“A very nice morning!” 

He nodded smilingly and went on his way, and 
round the corner into Parker Street. Quigman 
glanced at Hetherwick and shook his head. 

“Not him!” he said. “Matherfield’s not follow¬ 
ing. And as I said we may have to wait—hours!” 

But at the end of another ten minutes Mather¬ 
field and Lord Morradale came together out of the 
entrance hall opposite. An official, smiling and talk¬ 
ing, accompanied them to the threshold; when they 
left him they came straight across the road. And it 
was obvious to Hetherwick that each was in a state 
of surprise—possibly, of perplexity. Matherfield 
hailed them as soon as he was within speaking dis¬ 
tance. 

“Here’s a queer business!” he said. “Did you see 
a professional-looking chap come away just now who 
carried a small leather box?” 

“We saw Mr. Garrowell, solicitor, St. Martin’s 
Lane,” answered Quigman. “I know him. Gone 
down Parker Street.” 

“It was Garrowell,” assented Matherfield. “I 
know him, too. Well,” he turned to Hetherwick, 
“it’s a queer business. They knew Garrowell across 


Highly-Respectable Solicitor 295 

there—he’s been to Madame Listorelle’s safe for her, 
before. He came there just now, with the usual 
authorization, on her notepaper, went to the safe, 
got that small box, and went. Garrowell!—a highly- 
respectable legal practitioner!” 

“Why didn’t you stop and ask him questions?” 
enquired Hetherwick. 

Matherfield exchanged a glance with Lord Morra- 
dale. 

“Not there!” he said. “It—well, it looks as if 
Madame really had sent him! Her business.” 

“Of course she’d sent him!” exclaimed Hether¬ 
wick. “Sent him under compulsion! The whole 
thing’s a clever plant. These fellows probably 
know that she’s employed Garrowell now and then 
and they forced her to write a letter to him, authoriz¬ 
ing him to come here again and enclosing an order 
on the Safe Deposit people! Don’t you see ?” 

“By Gad, there’s something in that, Matherfield!” 
said Lord Morradale. “Didn’t strike me, though! 
Ton my honour, I really thought he had come di¬ 
rect from her. Couldn’t think why, exactly, but 
then, as Matherfield says, a highly-respectable solici¬ 
tor—eh?” 

“We’ll soon settle it!” exclaimed Matherfield 
suddenly. “We’ll go to Garrowell’s office. Better 
discuss it there than have tackled him here. Any- 


296 Black Money 

way, he’ll have the square box. Quigman, call a 
taxi!” 

“There’s a man here waiting for me,” said 
Hetherwick. He signalled to his former driver who 
quickly came alongside. “For anything we know,” 
he continued as all four took their seats and were 
driven off, “Garrowell may have gone straight away 
somewhere to hand that box over! We ought to 
have followed.” 

“I don’t think so,” replied Matherfield. “The 
whole thing’s queer, and not at all what I expected. 
Lord Morradale says that he never heard of 
Madame employing Garrowell, and yet the Safe 
people say he’s been here two or three times on her 
business. But we’ll soon have it out of him.” 

Garrowell’s office proved to be up two flights of 
stairs in St. Martin’s Lane. They were dark and 
dingy stairs, and none of the four men clambering 
up them noticed that an office-boy, rushing uncere¬ 
moniously downward carried a small parcel with 
which he fled out of the door and away down the 
street. They were, indeed, thinking of Garrowell— 
and within five minutes they were all in his private 
room. For another five minutes Matherfield was 
explaining matters—explaining to an obviously 
startled and much astonished listener. 


Highly-Respectable Solicitor 297 

“That’s how it stands,” concluded Matherfield. 
“You’ve evidently got the explanation, Mr. Garro- 
well. Now-” 

“But you surprise me!” broke in the solicitor. 
“I’ve acted for Madame Listorelle in two or three 
matters—I’ve got things from her safe for her be¬ 
fore, once or twice. And I saw nothing unusual in 
the letter she sent me this morning. Here it is! 
You can see it. Her usual notepaper—certainly her 
handwriting—nobody, I think, could imitate that 
successfully. You see what she says—I was to give 
the enclosed authorization to the Safe people, take 
out a small, square, brown-leather-covered box from 
the safe, pack it up, and send it off to Mr. C. Basing, 
Post-Office, Southampton, at once, by express de¬ 
livery. Nothing unusual in all that, I think. Of 
course, I carried out her wishes. But look at the 
letter.” 

All four men were looking at the letter. It was 
as Garrowell described, and whether it had been 
written under duress or not, the writing was bold and 
firm. But Matherfield seized on the envelope, and 
after a glance at it, pointed to the post-mark. 

“See that!” he exclaimed. “Posted in the S. W. 
district late last night. If Madame had been at 
home in Paddington the post-mark would have been 
different. Well—but the square box, Mr. Garro- 



298 Black Money 

well! You’ve got it, of course ? Do you know that 

that box probably contains jewels worth-” 

“The box?” ejaculated Garrowell. “Got it? Of 
course not! It’s gone! The boy went off to the 
post-office with it—oh, just before you came.” 

“Gad!” muttered Lord Morradale. “Well—the 
post-office, at once, Matherfield!” 

But Matherfield suddenly laughed, throwing up 
both hands as if with a sudden inspiration. 

“No, my lord, no!” he said. “No! The box is 
safe enough in the post. It’s off to Mr. C. Basing, 
Post-Office, Southampton. And when Mr. Basing 
calls to collect it—he’ll find me!” 


CHAPTER XXIII 


THE LANDLADY OF LITTLE SMITH STREET 


HPHERE was triumphant conviction in Mather- 
fielcTs tone: there \yas the impulse to immediate 
action in the way in which he pulled out a railway 
guide from his pocket and rapidly turned its pages. 
But Hetherwick and Lord Morradale looked at 
each other. And each saw that the other was dubi¬ 
ous. 

“Yes,” said Lord Morradale, slowly. “Urn!—no 
doubt, Matherfield. But I say, you know—those 
jewels are worth no end! Safe enough, perhaps, in 
the hands of the postal authorities, now they are 

there, but—there’s many a slip, you know, and-” 

“You might take the postal authorities into your 
confidence,” suggested Hetherwick. “These people 

are up to all sorts of wily tricks-” 

Matherfield laughed quietly. It was the laugh of 
a man who knows his own business thoroughly and 
is a little impatient of outside advice or criticism. 

“I know what I’m doing, gentlemen,” he an¬ 
swered. “Leave it to me as to what I do with the 


299 


3»o Black Money 

post-office people. I’ve as good as got the hand- 
cuffs on Baseverie or on Ambrose—perhaps on 
both! This is how I figure the thing,” he went on 
with a final glance at the time-table. “These two 
men have got Madame Listorelle and the young 
lady-secretary in their power, safe somewhere in 
London. They forced Madame, last night, to write 
that letter to Mr. Garrowell here—we knew what 
they made her write. Mr. Garrowell got the small 
box containing the jewels, and he’s sent it off, al¬ 
ready, by express delivery, to Southampton. It will 
be there early this evening, and one or other of the 
men will be there to meet it. If Baseverie calls for 
it, Ambrose will be round the corner. If Ambrose 
calls for it, Baseverie will be close at hand. Prob¬ 
ably they’re already in Southampton—they’d go 
this morning, to be on the spot. As soon as the box 
is in their hands they’ll be off—probably to the Con¬ 
tinent, by Southampton and Havre. They won’t 
try the Atlantic—the five days’ voyage would be 
too risky. They’ll make for France. But they won’t 
get to France—they’ll find themselves in the lock¬ 
up at Southampton before bed-time. You see 
if that doesn’t come off, gentlemen, as sure as my 
name’s what it is. Now, Quigman, you come 
with me. We’ve just nice time to catch the one- 
thirty, and to get in touch with the Southampton 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 301 

police and lay our plans and make our arrange¬ 
ments. Sometime to-night, gentlemen, you’ll hear 
from me!” 

Then Matherfield hurried Quigman away, and the 
three men left behind looked at each other. Mr. 
Garrowell was obviously much concerned and his 
hands, thin and nervous, trembled as he began to 
arrange the papers on his desk. 

‘‘This is a most distressing business, gentlemen,” 
he said. “It is very painful to me to think that I 
have been made an instrument in a crime of this 
sort—however innocent a one! But how could I tell 
that this letter was forced out of Madame Listorelle? 
On the face of it-” 

“Oh, there’s no blame attaching to you, Mr. Gar¬ 
rowell !” interrupted Lord Morradale. “On the face 
of it, the letter’s genuine enough. But I wanted to 
ask you a question—how much do you know of 
Madame Listorelle? I mean, how often has she 
employed you?” 

“Two or three times only,” replied Garrowell. 
“She came to me first about an agreement which I 
had had to send her on behalf of another client. She 
seemed very friendly and was kind enough to say 
that next time she had any legal business she would 
remember me as she hadn’t any regular solicitor of 
her own. I think,” he added with a deprecating 



302 Black Money 

smile, “she probably saw that I was beginning, and 
hadn’t much to do.” 

“I see,” said Lord Morradale, looking round at 
the somewhat humble appointments of the office. 
“And you’ve been to that safe deposit place on her 
behalf—how often?” 

“Twice. On each occasion Madame Listorelle 
wrote her instructions from abroad. Once she was 
in Paris. The other time she was at Nice. The 
instructions were similar on both occasions, I was to 
go to the Safe Deposit, get a certain parcel or article 
and post it to an address given. The first time I 
sent a small parcel to Amsterdam—I have the exact 
address, and name—; the second, to New York. 
So that, of course, when I got Madame’s letter this 
morning, I saw nothing unusual in it.” 

“Just so!” agreed Lord Morradale. “You 
wouldn’t. Well, I hope Matherfield will clap the 
irons on the men who forced her to write it! Eh, 
Hetherwick?” 

“With all my heart!” responded Hetherwick. 
“But I, too, want to ask Mr. Garrowell a question. 
How long,” he continued, “have you been here, in 
St. Martin’s Lane?” 

“Oh, four or five years,” replied Garrowell. 

“Then you know this district pretty well, of 
course. Have you ever come across a man whom 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 303 

I’ll try to describe to you?” He went on to give an 
accurate, if concise description of Baseverie. “That 
man,” he concluded, “is sometimes seen around 
here.” 

Garrowell nodded. 

“I know him!” he said. “In fact, he’s been in this 
very room—to see me. But I don’t know his name, 
nor anything much about him. He was brought 
here by another man, and he only stayed a few 
minutes.” 

“How much do you know about him—however 
little ?” asked Hetherwick. 

“This much. You know that people who have 
invented things come to solicitors—for legal advice, 
and sometimes to get information as to how they 
can best dispose of their inventions? Well, about 
nine months ago, a man came to me who claimed 
to have invented a drop-bottle—that is a bottle from 
which you could only drop one drop of stuff at a 
time. He said such a thing was badly wanted, and 
that there ought to be a pile of money in it. He 
wanted to know how best to get it on the market. 
I didn’t know, but I mentioned the matter to one 
or two people, and a man I know—or knew at that 
time, for he’s since dead, unfortunately—said that 
he knew a man who was a sort of commission agent 
for inventions—took up a good idea, don’t you see, 


304 Black Money 

and introduced it—and he promised to bring him 
to see me. He brought him—the man he brought 
was without doubt the man you describe. His name 
was not mentioned, but I am sure he was that man. 
I don’t know what your man is, but I felt sure that 
the man I am talking about either was or had been 
a medical man.” 

“Ah!” exclaimed Hetherwick. “What made you 
think that?” 

“From his conversation—from the remarks he 
made about the bottle. He didn’t take it up—he said 
my client was too late and was wrongly informed 
into the bargain—there was such a thing, and a 
superior one, already on the market. He went away, 
then—and, as I say, I never heard his name, and 
I’ve never seen him since.” 

“That’s the man we want!” said Hetherwick. “If 
Matherfield can only lay hands on him!—but we 
shall know more by midnight.” 

Outside, he turned to Lord Morradale with a 
shake of the head. 

“We’re no nearer to any knowledge of where the 
two women are!” he exclaimed. 

“Oh, I don’t know!” responded Lord Morradale. 
“I think we are, you know. You see, if Mather¬ 
field nabs those chaps, or even one of them, he or 
they will see that the game’s up and will give in 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 305 

and say where their captives are. Odd business, 
Hetherwick, that people can be kidnapped and im¬ 
prisoned in broad daylight, in London!” 

*‘1 don’t think anything’s impossible, or odd—in 
London,” answered Hetherwick, drily. “If one had 
only the least idea as to which quarter of the town 
that car was driven, one might be doing something!” 

“Lots of sub-sections in every quarter, and sub¬ 
sections again in each of those,” replied Lord Morra- 
dale with equal dryness. “Take some time to comb 
out this town. No! I think we must trust to 
Matherfield. Nothing else to trust to, in fact.” 

But Hetherwick suddenly thought of Mapperley. 
He began to wonder what the clerk was after; what 
his notion had been. Then he remembered Map- 
perley’s admonition to look out for a message about 
that time, and excusing himself from Lord Morra- 
dale, he jumped on a ’bus and went along to the 
Temple. There, in the letter box, he found a tele¬ 
gram : 

“Meet me Victoria three o’clock. Mapperley.” 

Hetherwick set off for Victoria there and then. 
But it was only a quarter past two when he got there, 
and as he had had no lunch he turned into the res¬ 
taurant. There, when he was half way through a 
chop, Mapperley found him and slipped into a chair 
close by before Hetherwick noticed his presence. 


3°6 Black Money 

“Thought I might find you in here, sir,” said 
Mapperley. They were alone in a quiet corner, but 
the clerk lowered his voice to a whisper. “Well,” 
he continued, bending across the table. “I’ve done 
a bit, anyhow.” 

“In what way?” asked Hetherwick. 

Mapperley produced from his breast pocket some 
papers, and from amongst them selected an envelope 
—the azure-tinted envelope which he had picked up 
from the caretaker’s supper table at St. Mary’s Man¬ 
sions. 

“You recognise this?” he said, with a sly smile. 
“You know where I got it. This is the envelope 
which Baseverie took to the caretaker, with the order 
to enter Madame Listorelle’s flat. You knew that I 
carried it off, from under the man’s nose, last night. 
But you didn’t know why—I only laughed when you 
asked me.” 

“Well, why, then?” enquired Hetherwick. 

“This reason,” replied Mapperley. “We both 
noticed that the sheet of paper on which the order 
had been written by Madame had been shortened— 
there was no doubt that a printed or embossed 
address had been trimmed off, rather roughly, too. 
We noticed that, I say, both of us. But I don’t 
think you noticed something far more important— 
far, far more important!—for our purposes.” 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 307 

“No,” admitted Hethervvick. “I didn’t. What?” 

“This,” said Mapperley, turning back the broken 
flap of the envelope. “You didn’t notice that here, 
on the envelope, is the name and address of the sta¬ 
tioner who supplied this stuff! There you are— 
W. H. Calkin, 85, Broadway, Westminster. You 
never saw that, Mr. Hetherwick. But I did!” 

Hetherwick began to comprehend. He smiled— 
gratefully. 

“Smart of you, Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “I 
see! And—you’ve been there?” 

“I’ve been there,” answered Mapperley. “I saw a 
chance of tracking these men down. I couldn’t get 
hold of Calkin till nearly noon, but I got on like a 
house afire when I did get him. You see,” he went 
on, “that paper is, to start with, of an unusual tint, 
in colour. Secondly, it’s of very superior quality, 
though very thin—intended, chiefly, for foreign 
correspondence. Thirdly, it’s expensive. Now, I 
felt certain its use would be limited, and what I 
wanted to find out from the stationer was—to whom 
he’d supplied it. That was easy. He recognised the 
paper and envelope at once. Of the handwriting on 
the paper he knew nothing whatever—Madame’s 
writing, you know—that he’d never seen before. 
But he said at once that he’d only supplied that par¬ 
ticular make of paper and envelopes to three people, 


308 Black Money 

and for each person he’d prepared a die, to emboss 
the addresses. The embossing had been done at his 
shop, and he showed me specimens of each. One 
was for the Dowager Lady Markentree, 120, Gros- 
venor Gardens. That was no use. The second was 
for Miss Chelandry, 87, Ebury Street. That was 
out of count, too. But the third was what I wanted. 
It was just the address, 56, Little Smith Street, 
S. W. I. As soon as I saw it, I knew I’d got on 
the right track.” 

“Go on!” said Hetherwick. 

“The stationer, Calkin, didn’t know the name of 
the man who ordered this paper and gave this ad¬ 
dress,” continued Mapperley. “He knew him well 
enough as a customer, though, and described him. 
Baseverie, without a doubt! Calkin says that Base- 
verie, during the last few months, bought various 
items of stationery from him—note-books, duplicat¬ 
ing paper, office requisites, and so on. He never 
knew his name, but as he always carried away his 
own purchases, and paid spot cash for them, that 
didn’t matter. Calkin supplied him with ten quires 
of this paper and envelopes to match a couple of 
months ago. So—there you are! And there I was 
—sure at last that Baseverie’s mysterious hiding- 
place was 56, Little Smith Street!” 

“Good—good!” said Hetherwick. “What next?” 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 309 

“Well, I thought we could do with a bit of help,” 
replied Mapperley, smiling. “So I left Calkin— 
bound to secrecy, of course—and telephoned to Issy 
Goldmark. Issy is just the sort of chap for games 
of this sort! Issy came—and he and I took a stroll 
rounds Do you know Little Smith Street?” 

“Not I!” answered Hetherwick. “Never heard 
of it!” 

“Oh, well, but it is a street,” said Mapperley. “It 
lies between Great Smith Street and Tufton Street, 
back o’ the Church House—not so far from the 
Abbey. Bit slummy down those quarters—round 
about—sort of district that’s seen decidedly better 
days. Still, there’s good, solid houses here and there 
—56 is one of ’em. From outside, it looks the sort 
of house you can’t get into—dark, silent: heavily- 
curtained windows—sort of place in which you could 
murder anybody on the quiet. Very substantial front 
door, painted dark green, with an old-fashioned brass 
knocker—that sort of house. We took a good look 
at it.” 

“See anything?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Nothing but what I’ve told you—lifeless sort o’ 
place,” answered Mapperley. “However, having once 
seen it, I wasn’t going to leave it unwatched, so I 
posted Issy there, in the window of a convenient 
public-house, and came away to telegraph to you. 


3io 


Black Money 

And there Issy is—either in his pub, or loafing round. 
And now we ought to go and hear if he's anything 
to report. And if he hasn’t?—what then? 

“Just so,” said Hetherwick. “That’s it—what 
then? But before we do anything at all, Mapperley, 
I’d better post you up as to what’s happened else¬ 
where this morning. You see,” he continued, when 
he had finished his story, “if Matherfield’s theory is 
correct and Baseverie has already gone to Southamp¬ 
ton to collect that parcel on its arrival, and if 
Ambrose has gone with him, we shan’t find Base¬ 
verie at this address. But—we might enquire if he’s 
known there.” 

Mapperley reflected a while. Then an idea seemed 
to suggest itself. 

“Pay your bill, sir, and let’s get out to a Post- 
Office Directory somewhere,” he said. “We’ll get 
the name of the occupier of 56, Little Smith Street.” 

Ten minutes later they were looking down the 
long columns of names in a directory: Mapperley 
suddenly pointed to what they wanted. 

“There we are!’ he said. “Mrs. Hannah Mallett 
—boarding-house proprietor.” 

“Come along!” said Hetherwick. “We’ll see Mrs. 
Mallett, anyhow.” 

But on arrival at Little Smith Street, Mapperley 
looked round first, for his friend Mr. Goldmark. 


Landlady of Little Smith Street 311 

Mr. Goldmark materialised suddenly—apparently 
from nowhere—and smiled. 

“Afternoon, mithter!” he said politely to Hether- 
wick. “Lovely weather, isn’t it? Ain’t theen noth¬ 
ing, Mapperley, old bean!—ain’t been a thoul in or 
out o’ that houth, thinth you hopped it! Theem’th 
to me it’th locked up.” 

“We’ll see about that,” remarked Hetherwick. 
“Come with me, Mapperley. You stay here, Gold- 
mark, and keep your eyes as open as before.” 

He advanced boldly, with the clerk at his heels, 
to the door of number 56, and knocked loudly on 
the stout panel, supplementing this with a ring at 
the bell. This dual summons was twice repeated 
—with no result. 

“Somebody coming!” whispered Mapperley, sud¬ 
denly. “Bolted—inside—as well as locked!” 

Hetherwick distinctly heard the sound of a stout 
bolt being withdrawn: then of a key being turned. 
The door was opened,—only a little, but sufficiently 
to show them the face and figure of an unusually 
big woman, an Amazon in appearance, hard of eye 
and lip, who glared at them suspiciously, and as 
soon as she saw that there were two of them, nar¬ 
rowed the space through which she inspected her 
callers. But Hetherwick got a hand on the door 
and a foot across the threshold. 


3i2 Black Money 

“Mrs. Mallett?” he enquired in a purposely loud 
voice. “Just so! Is Doctor Baseverie in?” 

Both men were watching the woman keenly, and 
they saw that she started a little, involuntarily. But 
her head shook a ready negative. 

“Nobody of that name here!” she answered. 

She would have shut the door but for Hether¬ 
wick’s foot—he advanced it further, giving Mrs. 
Mallett a keen, searching glance. 

“Perhaps you know Dr. Baseverie by another 
name?” he suggested. “So—is Mr. Basing in?” 

But the ready shake of the head came again, 
and the hard eyes grew harder and more sus¬ 
picious. 

“Nobody of that name here, either!” she said. 
“Don’t know anybody of those names.” 

“I think you do,” persisted Hetherwick sternly. 
He turned to Mapperley, purposely. “We shall have 
to get the police-” 

“Look out, sir!” exclaimed Mapperley, snatching 
at Hetherwick’s arm. “Your fingers!” 

The woman suddenly banged the door to, narrowly 
missing Hetherwick’s hand, which he had closed on 
the edge: a second later they heard the bolt slipped 
and the key turned. And Hetherwick, as with a 
swift illumination, comprehended things, and turned 
sharply on his clerk. 



Landlady of Little Smith Street 313 

“Mapperley!” he exclaimed. “Sure as fate!— 
those ladies are in there! Trapped!” 

“Shouldn’t wonder, sir,” agreed Mapperley. “And 
as you say—the police-” 

“Come back to Goldmark,” said Hetherwick. 

Going lower down the street and retreating into 
the shelter of a doorway, the three men held a rapid 
consultation, suddenly interrupted by an exclamation 
from the Jew, who still kept his eyes on the house. 

“Th’elp me if the woman ain’t leavin’ that houth!” 
he said. “Thee!—there thee ith! Lockin’ the door 
behind her, too! Goin’ up the thtreet!” 

Hetherwick looked and saw, and pushed Goldmark 
out of the doorway. 

“Follow!” he said. “And for God’s sake, don’t 
miss her!” 



CHAPTER XXIV 


THE HOUSE IN THE YARD 


r jPHE Jew silently and promptly set out in the wake 
of the hurrying woman; presently she and her 
pursuer disappeared round a corner. 

“That’s the result of our call, Mapperley!” said 
Hetherwick. “She’s gone somewhere—to tell some¬ 
body!” 

“Likely!” assented Mapperley. “But wherever 
she’s gone, Issy Goldmark’ll spot her. He’s the eyes 
of a lynx.” 

“He let Baseverie slip him, the other night, 
though,” remarked Hetherwick. 

“Well, there was some excuse for that,” said 
Mapperley. “To begin with, he was only instructed 
to find out where Baseverie went, and to end when 
he had found out! He’ll not let this woman slip 
him. She’s good to follow—plenty of her.” 

“I wish we knew what she’d left in that house,” 
said Hetherwick. “We’ll have to find out, some¬ 
how !” 

“That’s a police job,” replied Mapperley. “Can’t 
314 


The House in the Yard 3 J 5 


walk into people’s houses without a warrant. And 
you say Matherfield’s off on the other track. 
However, I should say that this woman’s gone off 
now to find somebody who’s principally con¬ 
cerned—she looked afraid, in my opinion, when she 
saw me.” 

‘‘She’s in it, somehow,” muttered Hether- 
wick. “That house looks mysterious enough for 
anything. We’ll keep a close watch on it, anyway, 
until Goldmark comes back, however long that 
may be.” 

But the Jew was back within twenty minutes. So 
was the woman. She came first, hurrying up the 
street quicker than when she had left it. As far as 
the watchers could make out from their vantage 
point, twenty yards away from her door, she looked 
flustered, distressed, upset. After her, on the op¬ 
posite pavement, came Mr. Issy Goldmark, his hands 
in his pockets. 

The woman re-entered the house: they heard the 
door bang. A moment later the Jew turned into the 
entry in which Hetherwick and Mapperley stood half- 
hidden from the street. He smiled, inscrutably. 

“Thee her go back to her houth ?” he asked. “Well, 
I followed. I thaw where thee’th been, too.” 

“Where, then?” demanded Hetherwick, im¬ 
patiently. 


3i6 Black Money 

Goldmark jerked his head in the direction from 
whence he had come. 

“Round that corner,” he said, “you get into a reg¬ 
ular thlum. Little thtreeth, alleyth, pathageth, and 
tho on. In one of 'em, a narrow plathe, where 
there’th a thort of open-air market, there’th a good 
thithed pieth of blank wall, with an iron fathed door 
in it. Well, the woman went in there—let herthelf 
in with a key that thee took from her pocket. Ath 
thoon ath thee’d gone in, I took a clother look. The 
door’th fathed with iron, or thteel, ath I thaid— 
jolly thtrong. There ain’t no name on it, and no 
keyhole that you can look through. The wall’th a 
good nine or ten feet high, and it’th covered with 
broken glath at the top. Not a nithe plathe to get 
into, nohow!” 

“Well?” enquired Hetherwick. “She went in?” 

“Went in, ath I thay, mithter, and the door clothed 
on her. After I’d taken a glimpth at the door I got 
a potht behind one of the thtalls in the thtreet and 
watched. She came out again in about ten minnitth 
—looked to me, too, ath if thee hadn’t had a very 
plethant time inthide. Upthet! And thee thet off 
back here, fathter than vhat thee came. Now thee’th 
gone into her houth again—ath you no doubt thaw. 
And that’th all. But if I wath you, mithter,” con¬ 
cluded Issy, “I thould jutht find out vhat there ith 


The House in the Yard 317 

behind that door and the wall it’th thet in—I thhould 
tho!” 

“That’s a police job,” said Hetherwick, once more. 
“If we’d only got Matherfield with us, we could—” 
he paused, thinking. “Look here, Mapperley,” he 
continued, with a sudden inspiration. “I know what 
we’ll do! You get a taxi-cab, as quickly as possible. 
Drive to the police station where I usually meet 
Matherfield. There’s another man there whom I 
know, and who’s pretty well up in this business— 
Detective-Sergeant Robmore. Ask for him. Tell 
him what we’ve discovered, and ask him to come back 
with you and to bring another man if he thinks it 
necessary. Now then, Goldmark!—tell Mapperley 
exactly where this place is.” 

The Jew pointed along the street to its first 
corner. 

“Round that corner,” he said. “Firtht turning to 
the right; then firtht to the left; then firtht to the 
right—that’th the thop, Lot’th o’ little thtallth in it 
—a bithy, crowded plathe.” 

“Didn’t ye notice the name?” demanded Mapper¬ 
ley, half-scoldingly. 

“To be thure I did!” grinned Goldmark. “Pen- 
cove Thtreet. But it’th better to dethcribe it than to 
name it. And don’t you go tellin’ no tackthy-driver 
to drive you in there!—’cauth there ain t room 1 ’ 


318 Black Money 

Mapperley gave no answer to this piece of advice; 
he shot off in the direction of Victoria Street, and 
Hetherwick turned to the Jew. 

“We’ll go and have another look at this place, 
Goldmark,” he said. “But we’ll go separately—as 
long as we’re in this street, anyway. You stroll off 
to that first corner, and I’ll join you.” 

He crossed the street when the Jew had lounged 
away, and once more took a narrow look at the house 
into which the big woman had vanished. It was as 
close barred and curtained as ever; a veritable place 
of mystery. For a moment Hetherwick doubted 
whether he ought to leave it unwatched. But the 
descriptions of the wall and door in Pencove Street 
had excited his imagination, and he went on, turned 
the corner, and rejoined Goldmark. Goldmark at 
once went in front, piloting him into a maze of 
unusually dirty and crowded streets, and finally into 
one, narrower than the rest, on each side of which 
were tent-like stalls whereon all manner of cheap 
wares were being offered for sale by raucous-voiced 
vendors. He saw at once that this was one of those 
open-air markets of which there are many in the 
poorer neighbourhoods of London and wherein you 
can buy a sixpenny frying-pan as readily as a paper 
of fried fish, and a gay neckerchief alongside a 
damaged orange. 


The House in the Yard 319 


Threading his way behind Issy, and between the 
thronged stalls and the miserable shops that lined 
the pavement, Hetherwick presently came to the 
piece of blank wall of which the Jew had told him. 
The houses and shops round about were old and 
dilapidated, but the wall was either modern or had 
been rebuilt and strengthened. It stretched between 
two low houses, one used as a grocer’s, the other as 
a hardware shop. In length it was some thirty feet; 
in height, quite ten; its coping, as Goldmark had said, 
was liberally embattled with broken glass. The door, 
set flush with the adjoining masonry, was a solid 
affair, faced with metal, newly-painted, and the lock 
was evidently a patent one. A significant fact struck 
Hetherwick at once—there was no sign of a bell and 
none of a knocker. 

“You say the woman let herself in here?” he 
asked, as he and Issy paused. 

“That’th it, Mithter Hetherwick—let herself in,” 
replied Issy. “I thee her take the key from her 
pocket.” 

Hetherwick glanced at the top of the wall. 

“I wonder what’s behind ?” he muttered. “Build¬ 
ing of some sort, of course.” He turned to a man 
whose stall stood just in front of the mysterious 
door, and who at that moment had no trade. “Do 
you know anything about this place?” he asked. 


320 Black Money 

“Do you know what’s behind this wall? what 
building it is?” 

The stallkeeper eyed Hetherwick over, silently 
and carefully. Deciding that he was an innocent 
person and not a policeman in plain clothes, he found 
his tongue. 

“I don’t, guv’nor!” he answered. “’Aint a bloomin’ 
notion. I been cornin’ here, or hereabouts, this three 
year or more, but I ’aint never seen behind that wall, 
nor in at there doorway. S’elp me!” 

“But I suppose ye’ve seen people go in and come 
out of the door?” suggested Hetherwick. “It must 
be used for something!” 

“I reckon it is, guv’nor, but I don’t call nobody 
to mind, though, to be sure, I see a woman come out 
of it a while ago—big, heavy jawed woman, she 
was. But queer as it may seem, I don’t call to mind 
ever seeing anybody else. You see, guv’nor, I comes 
here at about ten o’clock of a morning, and I packs 
up and ’ops it at five—if there’s folks comes in and 
out o’ that spot, it must be early in a morning and 
late at night, and so I shouldn’t see ’em. But it’s 
my belief this here wall and door is back premises 
to something—the front o’ the place’ll be on the 
other side.” 

“That’s a good idea,” said Hetherwick, with a 
glance at Goldmark. “Let’s go round.” 


The House in the Yard 321 


But there was no going round. Although they 
tried various alleys and passages and streets that 
ought to have been parallel to Pencove Street, they 
failed to find any place that could be a frontage to 
the mysterious wall and its close-set door. But the 
Jew’s alert faculties asserted themselves. 

“We can thee vhatth behind that vail, mithter, 
eathy enough if we get one o’ them thop-keeperth 
oppothit to let uth go upstairth to hith firtht floor,” 
he said. “Look right acroth the thrtreet there, 
thtallth and all, into whatever there ith. Try that 
one,” he went on, pointing to a greengrocer’s es¬ 
tablishment which faced the close-street door; “tell 
him we’re doin’ a bit o’ land-thurveyin’—which ith 
true!” 

Hetherwick made his request—the greengrocer’s 
lady showed him and Goldmark upstairs into a bow- 
windowed parlour, one of those dismal apartments 
which are only used on Sundays, for the purpose 
of adding more gloom to a gloomy day. She ob¬ 
served that there was a nice view both ways of the 
street, but Hetherwick confined his inspection to the 
front. He saw across the wall easily enough, now. 
There was little to see. The wall bounded a yard, 
bounded on its left and right sides by the walls of 
the adjoining houses, and at its further extremity by 
a low, squat building of red brick, erected against 


322 Black Money 

the rear of a high, windowless wall beyond. From 
its mere aspect, it was impossible to tell what this 
squat, flat-roofed structure was used for. Its door 
—closed—was visible; visible, too, were the windows 
on either side. But it was easy to see that they were 
obscured, as to their lower halves, by coats of dark 
paint. There was no sign over the building; no out¬ 
ward indication of its purpose. In the yard, how¬ 
ever, were crates, boxes, and carboys in wicker 
cases; a curiously shaped chimney, projecting from 
the roof above, suggested the presence of a furnace 
or forge beneath. And Hetherwick, after another 
look, felt no doubt that he was gazing at the place 
to which Hannaford had been taken, and where he 
had been skilfully poisoned. 

Goldmark suddenly nudged his arm, and nodded 
at the crowded street below. 

“Mapperley!” he whispered. “And two men 
with him!” 

Hetherwick, glancing in the direction indicated, 
saw Robmore and another man, both in plain clothes, 
making their way down the street, between the stalls 
and the shops. With them, and in close conversa¬ 
tion, was a uniformed constable. He turned to leave 
the room, but Goldmark again touched his elbow. 

“Before we go, mithter,” he said, “jutht take an¬ 
other glanth at that plathe oppothite, and it’th 


The House in the Yard 323 


thurroundin’th. I thee where we can get in! D’ye 
thee, mithter Hetherwick, the wall between that 
yard and the next houth—the right-hand thide one— 
ith fairly low at the far end. Now, if the man in 
that houth would let uth go through to hith back¬ 
yard—vhat?” 

“I see!” agreed Hetherwick. “We’ll try it. But 
Robmore first—come along.” 

He slipped some silver into the hand of the green¬ 
grocer’s lady, and went down to the street. A few 
brief explanations to the two detectives supple¬ 
mented the information already given them by Map- 
perley, and then Robmore nodded at the constable 
who stood by, eagerly interested. 

“We’ve been talking to him, Mr. Hetherwick,” 
he said. “He’s sometimes on day duty here, and 
sometimes he’s on night. He says he’s often won¬ 
dered about this place, and it’s a very queer thing 
that though he’s known this district more than a 
year, he’s never seen a soul go in or out of that 
door, and hasn’t the least notion of what business, 
if it is a business, is carried on there!” 

“Never seen anything or anybody!” corroborated 
the constable. “At any time!—day or night. When 
I first came on this beat, maybe fifteen months ago, 
that door had been newly set and painted, and the 
glass had just been stuck a-top of the wall. But 


324 Black Money 

it’s a fact—I’ve never seen anybody go in or come 
out!” 

“I propose to go in,” said Hetherwick. “I think 
we’ve abundant cause, knowing what we do. It 
may be that the two missing ladies are there. I’ve 
been having a look into the yard, and we could get 
into it easily by going through the grocer’s shop 
there, on the right, and climbing the wall from his 
back premises. What do you say, Robmore?” 

“Oh, I think so!” agreed Robmore. “Now we’re 
on the job, we’ll carry it through. Better let me 
tackle the grocer, Mr. Hetherwick—I’ll see him 
first and then call you in.” 

The other waited while Robmore entered the shop 
and spoke with its owner. They saw him engaged 
in conversation for several minutes; then he came 
to the door and beckoned the rest to approach. 

“That’s all right,” he said in an aside to Hether¬ 
wick. “We can go through to his back-yard, and 
he’ll lend us a step-ladder to get over the wall. But 
he’s told me a bit—he knows the two men who have 
this place in the next yard, and there’s no doubt 
at all, from his description of them, that one’s Am¬ 
brose and the other’s Baseverie. He says they’ve had 
the place almost eighteen months, and he thinks they 
use it as a laboratory—chemicals, or something of 
that sort. But he says they’re rarely seen—some- 


The House in the Yard 325 


times he’s never seen them for days and even weeks 
together. Usually they’re there of a night—he’s seen 
lights in the place at all hours of the night. Well— 
come on!” 

The posse of investigators filed through the dark 
little shop to a yard at its rear, the grocer’s appren¬ 
tice going in front with a step-ladder, which he 
planted against the intervening wall at its lowest 
point. One by one, the uniformed constable going 
first, the six men climbed and dropped over. But 
for their own presence, the place seemed deserted 
and lifeless. As Hetherwick had observed from the 
greengrocer’s parlour the windows were obscured 
by thick coats of paint; nevertheless, two or three 
of the men approached and tried to find places from 
which the paint had been scratched, in an effort to 
see what lay inside. But the constable, bolder and 
more direct, went straight to the entrance. 

“Door’s open!” he exclaimed. “Not even shut!” 
He pushed the door wide, and went into the build¬ 
ing; the rest crowding after him. “Hullo!” he 
shouted. “Hullo!” 

No answer came to the summons. The constable 
crossed the lobby in which they were all standing, 
and opened an inner door. And Hetherwick saw at 
once that the grocer’s surmise as to the purpose to 
which the place was put had been correct—this was a 


326 Black Money 

chemical laboratory, well equipped, too, with modern 
apparatus. But there was not a sign of life in it. 

“Nobody here, apparently,” murmured one of the 
men. “Flown!” 

Robmore went forward to another door, and 
opening it, revealed a room furnished as an office. 
There was a roll-top desk in it, and papers and 
documents lying there; he and Hetherwick began to 
finger and examine them. And Hetherwick sud¬ 
denly saw something that made a link between this 
mysterious place and the house he had called at 
earlier in the afternoon. There, before his eyes, 
lay some of the azure-tinted notepaper which Map- 
perley had traced with the embossed address on it 
of which the stationer had told. 

“There’s no doubt we’ve hit on the place at last, 
Robmore,” he said. “I wish we’d had Matherfield 
here. But-” 

Before he could say more, a sudden shout came 
from Goldmark, who, while the others were in¬ 
vestigating the lower regions, had courageously and 
alone gone up the low staircase to the upper rooms. 

“Mithter!” he called. “Mithter Hetherwick!— 
come up here—come up, all of you. Here’th a man 
here, a—thittin’ in a chair—and th’elp me if I don’t 
believe he’th a thtiff ’un!—dead!” 



CHAPTER XXV 


DEAD 

'T'HE rest of the searchers, hearing that startled 
cry from the Jew, with one accord made for the 
upper part of the building. Robmore and Hether- 
wick reached him first; he was standing at the half- 
opened door of a room, into which he was staring 
with eager eyes. They pushed by him and entered. 

Hetherwick took in the general aspect and con¬ 
tents of that room at a glance. It had been fitted up 
—recently, he thought, from certain small evidences 
—as a bed-sitting room. A camp-bed stood in one 
comer: there was a washstand, a dressing table, a 
chest of drawers, two or three pictures, a shelf of 
books, a small square of carpet in the centre of the 
floor, the outer edges of which had been roughly and 
newly stained. On the bed lay, open, a suit-case, 
already packed with clothes and linen: by it lay an 
overcoat, hat, gloves, umbrella: it was evident that 
the man to whom it belonged had completed his 
preparations for a departure, and had nothing to 
do but to dose and lock the suit-case, put on his over- 
327 


328 Black Money 

coat and hat, pick up the other things and go away. 

But the man himself? There was a big, old- 
fashioned easy chair at the side of the bed—a roomy, 
comfortable affair. A man lay, rather than sat, in it, 
in an attitude which suggested that he had dropped 
there as with a sudden weariness, laid his head back 
against the padded cushion, and—gone to sleep. 
But the men knew, all of them, as they crowded into 
that room, that it was no sleep that they had broken 
in upon—it was death. This, as the Jew had been 
quick to see, was a dead man—dead! 

Hetherwick took him in as quickly as he had taken 
in his surroundings. His head lay quietly against 
the padding of the chair, a little inclined to his left 
shoulder: the face was fully visible. It was—to 
Hetherwick—the face of a stranger; in all his and 
Matherfield’s investigations it had not been described 
to them. Yet he was certain that he was looking on 
the man known to them by repute as Ambrose. 
Disguised, of course—he had shaved off the dark 
beard and moustache of which they had heard, and 
he could see at once that the loss of them had made 
a remarkable difference in his appearance. But 
nothing could disguise his height and general build. 
This, without doubt, was the man Matherfield and he 
had hunted for, the man who had met Hannaford 
at Victoria, who had disappeared from his flat in the 


Dead 329 

Adelphi—the man who was associated with Base- 
verie, and who- 

“Dead as a door-nail!” muttered Robmore, bend¬ 
ing close to the still figure. “And—he’s been dead 
a good bit, too!—some hours anyway. Stiff! Do 
ye knew him, Mr. Hetherwick?” 

Hetherwick said what he thought. Robmore 
pointed to the things on the bed. 

“Looks as if he’d been taken with a seizure just 
as he was about to set off somewhere,” he remarked. 
“Well, if this is the Dr. Ambrose we’ve been seek¬ 
ing—but let’s see if he’s got anything on him to 
prove his identity.” 

While the rest of the men stood by watching he 
put his hand into the dead man’s inside breast pocket 
—he was wearing a smart, brand-new grey tweed 
suit. Hetherwick, later on, remembered how its 
newness struck him as being incongruously out of 
place, somehow—and drew out a pocketbook. 
Touching Hetherwick’s elbow and motioning him to 
follow him, he went over to the window, leaving the 
others still staring wonderingly at the dead man. 

“This is a queer business, Mr. Hetherwick,” he 
whispered as they drew apart. “You think this is 
the Dr. Ambrose we were after?” 

“Sure of it!” answered Hetherwick. “He’s shaved 
off his beard and moustache, and that’s no doubt 



330 


Black Money 

made a big difference in his appearance, but you 
may depend on it, this is the man! But what s 
caused his sudden death?” 

Then a keen, vivid recollection flashed up in him, 
and he turned sharply, glancing at the rigid figure 
in the background. 

“What is it?” asked Robmore, curiously. “Some¬ 
thing strikes you?” 

Hetherwick pointed to the dead man’s attitude. 

“That’s—that’s just how Hannaford looked when 
he died in the railway carriage!” he whispered. 
“After the first signs—ye know—he laid back and 
—died. Just like that—as if he’d dropped quietly 
asleep. Can—can it be that-” 

“I know what you’re thinking,” muttered Rob- 
more. “Poisoned! Well—what about—eh?—the 
other man?” 

“Baseverie!” exclaimed Hetherwick. 

“Why not?—to rid himself of an accomplice! 
But—this pocket-book,” said Robmore. “Let’s see 
what’s in it. Doesn’t seem to be anything very 
fnuch, by the thinness.” 

From one flap of the pocket-book he drew out a 
wad of carefully folded bank-notes, and rapidly 
turned them over. 

“Hundred and fifty pounds there,” he remarked. 
“And what’s this paper—a draft on a New York 


Dead 


33i 


bank for two hundred. New York, eh? So that’s 
where he was bound? And this,” he went on, turn¬ 
ing out the other flap. “Ah!—see this, Mr. Hether- 
wick? He’d got his passage booked by the Maratic, 
sailing to-night. Um! And Matherfield’s gone to 
Southampton, after Baseverie. I’m beginning to see 
a bit into this, I think.” 

“What do you see?” asked Hetherwick. 

“Well, it looks to me as if Baseverie has gone 
ahead to collect that box containing the jewels, and 
that Ambrose was to follow later, join him there, 
when Baseverie had secured the loot, and that they 
were then to be off with their harvest! But—do 
you notice this—the name under which the passage 
is booked? Not Ambrose — Charles Andrews, 
Esquire. Andrews! And Baseverie is Basing. 
Basing and Andrews. Now I wonder if they car¬ 
ried on business here under these names?” 

“That’s an unimportant detail,” said Hetherwick. 
“The important thing, surely, is—that! How did 
that man come by his death?” 

“Well, but I don’t think that is very important— 
just now,” replied Robmore. “After all, he is dead, 
and whether he died as the result of a sudden seizure, 
or whether Baseverie cleverly poisoned him before 
he left is a question we’ll have to settle later. But 
I’ll tell you what, Mr. Hetherwick—I’ll lay any- 


332 Black Money 

thing he didn’t poison himself! Look round—there 
isn’t a sign of anything he’s been drinking out of. 
No, sir—the other man’s done this. And if Mather- 
field has the luck to lay hands on him to-night—ah! 
But now, what was this your clerk, Mapperley, told 
us as we came along about the Little Smith Street 
landlady coming here this afternoon?” 

‘‘She was followed here by Goldmark,” replied 
Hetherwick. “Goldmark saw her admit herself by 
a key which she took from her pocket. She stayed 
inside a few minutes, came out looking much upset, 
and hurried away to her own house.” 

“And now you and I’ll just hurry after her,” said 
Robmore. “After all, she’s living, and we’ll make 
her find her tongue. Of course, she came in here 
expecting to find this man, and to tell him somebody 
was on the look-out. And—she found him dead! 
Come round there with me, Mr. Hetherwick, at 
once.” 

He turned to the other detective and the constable 
and after giving them some whispered instructions, 
left the room, Hetherwick, after a word or two with 
Mapperley, following him. But before they had 
reached the outer door, they heard steps in the yard, 
and suddenly two men appeared in the doorway. 

If Hetherwick and his companion looked question- 
ingly at these two men, they, on their part, looked 


Dead 


333 


questioningly at Robmore and Hetherwick. They 
were youngish men—Hetherwick set them down as 
respectably-dressed artisans. That they were sur¬ 
prised to find anyone confronting them at the door 
whereat all four now stood was evident—their 
surprise, indeed, was so great that they came to a 
sudden halt, staring silently. But Robmore spoke. 
“Wanting somebody ?” he asked sharply. 

The two strangers exchanged a glance, and the 
apparently elder one replied. 

“Well, nor he said. “Not that we know of. 
But—might we ask if you are? And—how you got 
in here ? Because this place happens to be ours!” 

“Yours!” exclaimed Robmore. “Your property?” 

“Well, if buying it, paying for it, and taking a 
receipt and papers makes it so!” answered the man. 
“Bought it this morning—and settled up for it, too, 
anyway.” 

Robmore produced and handed over a professional 
card, and the faces of the two men fell as they read 
it. The elder looked up quickly. 

“I hope there’s nothing wrong?” he said 
anxiously. “Detectives, eh? We’ve laid out a nice 
bit on this—savings, too—and ” 

“I don’t suppose there’s anything wrong that 
way,” replied Robmore, reassuringly. “But there’s 
something uncommonly wrong in other ways. Now 


334 Black Money 

look here—who are you two, and from whom did 
you buy this place?” 

“My name’s Marshall—his is Wilkinson,” 
answered the leader. “We’re just starting business 
for ourselves as electrical engineers. We advertised 
for a likely place hereabouts, and Mr. Andrews 
came to us about this—said he and his partner, Mr. 
Basing, were leaving, and wanted to sell it, just as 
it stood. We came to look at it, and as it’s just the 
place we need, to start with, we agreed to buy it. 
They said it was their own property, and to save law 
expenses, we carried out the purchase between our¬ 
selves. And we paid over the purchase money this 
morning, and got the papers, and the key.” 

“What time was that?” asked Robmore. 

“Ten o’clock or thereabouts,” replied Marshall. 
“By appointment—here.” 

“Did ye see both men—Basing and Andrews?” 

“Both! In that little room to the right. We 
settled the business—paid them in cash—and settled 
all up. It was soon done—then they stood us a 
drink and a cigar, and we went.” 

“Stood you a drink, eh ?” said Robmore, suddenly. 
“Where?” 

“Here! Basing, he pulled out a big bottle of 
champagne and a cigar-box, and said we’d wet the 
bargain. We’d a glass apiece, Wilkinson and me— 


Dead 


335 


then we left ’em to finish the bottle: we were in a 
hurry. But—is anything wrong?” 

“What is wrong, my lad, is that the man you know 
as Andrews is lying dead upstairs!” replied Rob- 
more. “Poisoned, most likely, by his partner. But 
as I said just now I don’t suppose there’s anything 
wrong about your buying the property, providing 
you can show a title to it—you say you’ve got the 
necessary papers.” 

Marshall clapped a hand on the pocket of his 
coat. 

“Got ’em all here, now,” he said. “But—did you 
say Andrews was dead—poisoned? Why, he was 
as alive as I am when we left the two of ’em together. 
They were finishing the bottle-” 

“Look here,” interrupted Robmore- “Wait 
awhile until we come back—we’ve some important 
work close by. There are people of ours upstairs— 
tell them I said you were to wait a bit. Now, Mr. 
Hetherwick.” 

Outside the yard and in the crowded street, Rob- 
more turned to his companion with a cynical laugh. 

“Champagne—to wet the bargain!” he said. 
“Left them to finish it, eh? And no doubt what 
finished Ambrose was in that champagne—slipped 
in by Baseverie when his back was turned. I’ll tell 
you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick, that chap’s a 


336 Black Money 

thorough-paced ’un—he goes the whole hog! I 
only hope he won’t be too deep for Matherfield at 
Southampton!—I shall be anxious till I hear.” 

“Is it possible for him to escape Matherfield?” 
exclaimed Hetherwick. “How can he? I look on 
him as being as good as in custody already! He’s 
bound to call at the post-office for that box-” 

“Is he, though?” interrupted the detective, with 
another incredulous laugh. “I’m not so sure about 
that, Mr. Hetherwick. Baseverie is evidently an 
accomplished scoundrel, and full of all sorts of 
tricks! I’ll tell ye what I’m wondering—will that 
parcel ever get to Southampton post-office, where it’s 
to be called for ?” 

“Whatever do you mean?” demanded Hetherwick. 
“It’s in the post! Posted this morning.” 

“No doubt,” agreed Robmore drily. “By special 
delivery, eh! And when it gets to Southampton 
station, it’s got to be taken to the head post-office, 
hasn’t it?” 

“Well?” asked Hetherwick. 

“There’s many a slip twixt cup and lip—so the old 
saying goes,” replied Robmore. “That parcel may 
slip. But isn’t this the number your clerk 
mentioned?” 

The door of Mrs. Mallett’s house looked more 
closely barred than ever—if possible. And no 



Dead 


337 


answer came to several summonses by bell and 
knocker. But presently Robmore tried the handle— 
the door opened at his touch. 

“Hullo!” he exclaimed. “Open! Um!—that 
seems a bit queer. Well—inside!” 

For the second time that afternoon Hetherwick 
walked into a place that seemed to be wholly 
deserted. 


32 


CHAPTER XXVI 


WATERLOO 


HE detective, walking a little in advance of his 



A companion, stepped forward to a hall-table and 
knocked loudly on its polished surface. No answer 
came. He went further along, to the head of a 
railed stair which evidently communicated with a 
cellar kitchen: again he knocked, more loudly than 
before, on an adjacent panel, and again got no 
reply. And at that, turning back along the hall, he 
opened the door of the room which faced upon the 
street, and he and Hetherwick looked in. A musty- 
smelling, close-curtained room, that, a sort of Sun¬ 
day parlour, little used, cold and comfortless in its 
formality. But the room behind it, to which Rob- 
more turned next, showed signs of recent occu¬ 
pancy and life. There was a fire in the grate, 
with an easy chair drawn near to it: on the table 
close by lay women’s gear—a heap of linen, with 
needle and thread thrust in, a work-basket, scissors, 
thimble; it required no more than a glance to see 
that the owner of these innocent matters had laid 


338 


Waterloo 339 

them down suddenly—suddenly interrupted in her 
task. 

‘Til tell you what it is, Mr. Hetherwick!” ex¬ 
claimed Robmore, abruptly. “This house is empty! 
Empty of people, anyway.” 

“Silent enough, to be sure/’ agreed Hetherwick. 
“The woman-” 

“You’ve frightened her by calling here,” said 
Robmore. “Then she slipped round to Pencove 
Street. And there she found Ambrose dead! She’s 
some connection with him and Baseverie, because she 
possesses a key that admits to that yard. And find¬ 
ing Ambrose dead she came back here, got her 
things, and cleared out. There isn’t a soul in this 
house!—I’ll lay anything on that!” 

“It struck me that this might be the place where 
the two ladies were detained,” remarked Hetherwick. 

“We’ll soon see about that,” declared Robmore. 
“Come upstairs—we’ll search the place from top 
to bottom. But stop—downstairs first.” 

He ran down the stair to the cellar kitchen, with 
Hetherwick at his heels. And at the door, he 
laughed, pointing within. 

“Look there!” he exclaimed. “I told you you’d 
interrupted things. See!—there’s one tea-tray, laid 
all ready for two—cups and saucers, teapot, bread 
and butter cut, cake. There’s another for one. And 



340 Black Money 

there’s the kettle, singing away like a bird on a 
bough. What’s that mean? The woman was going 
to carry up tea for two—somewhere—t’other tray 
was for herself. Well—you nipped that in the bud 
—she’ll have to get her tea somewhere. But—the 
others? Come upstairs.” 

Going back to the hall, he led the way up the main 
staircase. There were two stories above the ground 
floor; on the first were rooms the doors of which, 
being opened, or being found open, revealed nothing 
but ordinary things: of these rooms there were three, 
opening off a main landing. But on the next floor 
there were only two rooms—one was unfurnished: 
at the door of the other, a few inches ajar, the 
detective immediately paused. 

“Look you there, now, Mr. Hetherwick!” he said, 
pointing here and there. “Here’s recent work! 
Do you see that a strong bolt, more like a bar, has 
been fitted on the outside of this door ? And the door 
itself fitted with a new patent lock—key outside. 
And—good Lord!—a chain as well. Might be in 
a gaol! But what’s inside ?” 

He pushed the door open and revealed a large 
room, fitted with two small beds, easy chairs, a 
table on which books, magazines, newspapers lay— 
on the table, too, was fancy work which, it was 
evident, had been as hastily laid aside as the sewing 


Waterloo 


34i 


downstairs. Hetherwick bent over the things, but 
Robmore went to the one window. 

“Gaol, did I say?” he exclaimed. “Why, this is 
a gaol! Look here, Mr. Hetherwick!—window 
morticed inside and fitted with iron bars outside. 
Even if whoever’s been in here could have opened 
the window and if there’d been no bars there they 
couldn’t have done anything, though, for there’s 
nothing but a high blank wall opposite—back of 
some factory or other, apparently. But what’s 
this?” he added, opening a door that stood in a 
corner. “Um!—small bathroom. And this,” he 
continued, going to a square hatch set in the wall 
next to the staircase. “Ah!—trap big enough 
to hand things like small trays through, but 
not big enough for a grown person to squeeze 
through. Well—I shouldn’t wonder if you’re 
right, Mr. Hetherwick—this, probably, is where 
these ladies were locked up. But—they’re 
gone!” 

Hetherwick was looking round. Suddenly his 
eyes lighted on a familiar object. He stepped for¬ 
ward and from a chair near one of the beds picked 
up a handbag of green silk. He knew it well enough. 

“That settles it!” he exclaimed. “They have been 
here! This is Miss Han—I mean Miss Feather- 
stone’s bag—I’ve seen her carry it often. These 


34 2 Black Money 

are her things in it—purse, card-case, so on. She’s 
left it behind her.” 

“Aye, just so!” agreed Robmore. “As I say, 
they all left in a hurry. I figure it out like this—the 
woman, who’s of course acted as sort of gaoler to 
these two unfortunate ladies, when she made that 
discovery round yonder, came back here, got her 
outdoor things, and cleared off. But before she 
went, she’d the decency to slip up here, undo that 
chain, slip the bolt back, and turn the key! Then, no 
doubt, she made tracks at express speed, leaving the 
ladies to do what they liked. And they, Mr. Hether- 
wick, having a bit o’ common sense about ’em, did 
what I should ha’ done—they hooked it as quick as 
possible. That’s that, sir!” 

Hetherwick thrust Rhona’s hand-bag into his 
pocket and made for the door. 

“Then I’m off, Robmore,” he said. “I must try 
to find out where they’ve gone. I’ve an idea—proba¬ 
bly they’d go to Penteney’s office. I’ll go there. 
But—you?” 

“Oh, I’m going back to Pencove Street,” answered 
Robmore. “Pleny to do there. But off you go 
after the ladies, Mr. Hetherwick—there’s nothing 
you can do round here, now. I’ll keep that clerk 
of yours a bit, and the Jew chap—they might come 
in. We shall have some nice revelations in the 


Waterloo 


343 


papers to-morrow, I’m thinking, especially if Mather- 
field has the luck he expects.” 

“What are you going to do about this house?” 
asked Hetherwick as they went downstairs. “Do 
you think the woman will come back?” 

“Bet your life she won’t!” answered Robmore. 
“Not she! I should think she’s half way across 
London, north, south, east, or west by this. House ? 
—why, I shall just lock the front door and put the 
key in my pocket. We shall want to search this 
house, narrowly.” 

Hetherwick bade him good-day for the time being, 
and hurried off to Victoria Street, to fling himself 
into the first disengaged taxi-cab he encountered and 
to bid its driver go as speedily as possible to Lincoln’s 
Inn Fields. He was anxious about Rhona—and yet 
he felt that she was safe. And he was inquisitive, 
too—he wanted to hear her story, to find out what 
had happened behind the scenes. He felt sure of 
finding her at Penteney’s office: she and Madame 
Listorelle, once released from their prison, would 
naturally go there. 

But the clerk whom he encountered as soon as he 
rushed into the outer office damped his spirits at 
once by shaking his head. 

“Mr. Penteney’s not in, sir,” he answered. “He 
was in until not so long ago, but he got a telephone 


344 Black Money 

call and went out immediately afterwards. No—I 
don’t know who it was that rang him up, Mr. 
Hetherwick, nor where he went—seemed a bit ex¬ 
cited when he went out, and was in a fearful hurry.” 

Hetherwick concluded that Madame Listorelle had 
summoned Penteney, and that he had gone to meet 
her and Rhona. He went away, somewhat at a 
loss—then, remembering that Matherfield had 
promised to wire from Southampton, he turned to¬ 
wards his chambers. At the foot of the stairs he 
met his caretaker. 

“Been a young lady here enquiring for you, Mr. 
Hetherwick,” said the man. “Been here twice. I 
said I didn’t know when you’d be in—any time or 
no time. She said—but there is the young lady, 
sir—coming back!” 

Hetherwick turned sharply and saw Rhona 
coming across the square. Hurrying to meet 
her and disregarding whatever eyes might be 
watching them he took both her hands in 
his in a fashion that brought the colour to her 
cheeks. 

“You’re all right—safe?” he asked quickly. 
“Sure?” 

“I’m all right and quite safe, thank you,” she 
answered. “I—I’ve been here twice, before, but 
you were out. I came to borrow some money. I 


Waterloo 


345 

left my bag and purse in—the place where we were 
locked up, and-” 

Hetherwick pulled out the handbag and silently 
gave it to her. She stared at him. 

“You’ve been—there!” she exclaimed. “How 


“Got in this afternoon—an hour ago,” he 
answered. “Here!—come up to my rooms. We 
can’t stand talking here. Madame Listorelle?— 
where’s she?” 

“I left her at Victoria, telephoning to Major 
Penteney,” replied Rhona. “She, too, had no money. 
She wanted me to wait until Major Penteney arrived, 
but I wouldn’t—I walked here—I—I thought you’d 
want to know that we’d got out—at last.” 

Hetherwick said nothing until they had entered 
his sitting-room. Then, staring silently at her, he 
put his hands on Rhona’s shoulders, and after a long 
look at her, suddenly and impulsively bent and kissed 
her. 

“By Gad!” he said in a low voice. “I didn’t know 
how anxious I was about you until I saw you, 
just now! But—now I know!” 

Then, just as suddenly, he turned away from her 
and in a matter-of-fact manner lighted his stove, 
put on a kettle of water, and began preparations 
which indicated his intention of making tea. Rhona, 




34 6 Black Money 

from an easy chair into which he had un¬ 
ceremoniously thrust her, watched him. 

“Liberty!” she said suddenly. “We’re both dis¬ 
covering something. When you’ve been locked up, 
day and night, for awhile-” 

“How was it?” he asked, turning on her. “Of 
course, we know all about the kidnapping—but the 
rest, until to-day? Baseverie, of course?” 

“Baseverie and another man,” she answered. “A 
tall, clean-shaven man whose name we never heard. 
But Baseverie was the chief villain. As to how it 
was—they met us at the sunk road at Riversreade, 
forced us at the point of revolvers into a car and 
drove us off to London—to Westminster—and into 
a house there—the house you’ve been in. 
There-” 

“A moment,” said Hetherwick, who was finding 
cups and saucers. “The driver of that car?—he 
must have been an accomplice.” 

“No doubt, but we never saw him again. We 
only saw those two, and a woman who acted as 
gaoler and brought our meals. We were fed all 
right, and they gave us books and papers and 
actually provided us with fancy work. But they 
were inexorable about Madame and her jewels. 
They must have known all about them, because they 
got her own notepaper-” 




Waterloo 


347 


“I know all about that,” said Hetherwick. ‘Til 
tell you my side of it when you’ve had some tea. 
Forced her, I suppose, to write the letters?” 

“They forced her to do that just as they forced us 
into the car,” said Rhona. “With revolvers! And 
—they meant it. I suppose they’ve got the jewels, 
now ?” 

“Remains to be seen,” replied Hetherwick. “Did 
Madame Listorelle happen to tell you what those 
jewels were worth ?” 

“She talked about little else! Between eighty and 
ninety thousand pounds. She’s in an awful state 
about them. But it was, literally, a question of her 
life or her jewels. I don’t know what they’d have 
done with me. But now—I’m all right!” 

Hetherwick opened a tin box and producing a 
plum-cake held it up for Rhona to inspect. 

“What d’you think of that for a cake?” he asked, 
admiringly. “Present from my old aunt in the 
country—real, proper cake that. Yes,” he went on, 
setting the cake on the table, “yes, yes,—you’re all 
right, now. But, by George-” 

Rhona said nothing: she saw that his relief at 
seeing her was greater and deeper than he cared to 
show. She poured out the tea—they sat discussing 
the recent events until dusky shadows began to fall 
over the whole room. 



34 8 Black Money 

“I ought to be getting back to Riversreade,” she 
remarked at last. “It’s late/’ 

“Wait a bit!” said Hetherwick, who by that time 
had told her all he knew. “There’ll be a wire from 
Matherfield before long. Don’t go down to Rivers¬ 
reade to-night. Telephone to Lady Riversreade that 
you’re staying in town—her sister will be there by 
now and will have told her everything. Wait till we 
get the wire from Matherfield: then we’ll go and 
dine somewhere and you can put up at your old hotel 
in Surrey Street for the night. I want you to know 
what’s happened at Southampton and-” 

He broke off as a knock came at his outer door. 

“That’ll be Matherfield’s wire,” he exclaimed. 
“Now then-” 

A moment later he came back to her with the mes¬ 
sage in his hand. 

“It is from Matherfield,” he said. “Handed in 
Southampton West 6:19. Doesn’t say if he’s got 
him! All he says is—“Meet me Waterloo arriving 
8:20.” Well-” 

“I wonder?” said Rhona. “But Baseverie is-” 

“Just what Robmore says,” muttered Hetherwick. 
“However,” he looked at his watch. “Come along!” 
he continued. “We’ve just time to get some dinner 
—at Waterloo—and to be on the platform when the 
8:20 comes in. If only we could see Baseverie in 






Waterloo 


349 


charge of Matherfield and Quigman first, it would 
give me an appetite!” 

The vast space between the station buildings and 
the entrances to the platform at Waterloo was 
thronged when Hetherwick and Rhona came out of 
the restaurant at ten minutes past eight. Hetherwick 
was enquiring as to which platform the Southampton 
train would come in at when he felt a light touch on 
his arm. Turning sharply he saw Robmore. Rob- 
more gave him a quiet smile, coupled with an in¬ 
forming wink. 

“Guess you’re on the same job, Mr. Hetherwick,” 
he said. “Wire from Matherfield, eh?” 

“Yes,” replied Hetherwick. “And you?” 

“Same here,” assented Robmore. “Just to say I 
was to be here for the 8:20—with help,” he added, 
significantly. “I’ve got the help—there’s four of 
us round about. Heard anything of those ladies, 
Mr. Hetherwick?” 

“Here is one of them,” replied Hetherwick, in¬ 
dicating Rhona. “They’re safe—you’ll hear all 
about it, later. But this business—what do you 
make of Matherfield’s wire? Has he failed?” 

“I’ll tell you what I make of it,” answered Rob¬ 
more. “I think you’ll find that Baseverie is on this 
train, with Matherfield and Quigman in close attend¬ 
ance. For some reason of his own, Matherfield 


350 Black Money 

means to arrest Baseverie here—here! That’s how 
I figure it. They’ve seen Baseverie there and de¬ 
cided to follow him back to town. As soon as that 
train’s in-” 

A sudden sharp exclamation from Rhona inter¬ 
rupted him and made both men turn to her. She 
clutched Hetherwick’s arm, at the same time pointing 
with the other hand across the space behind them. 

“Baseverie!—himself!” she said. There! 
under that clock. See!—he’s going towards the 
gates!” 

With a swift and unceremonious gesture Robmore 
laid a hand on Rhona’s shoulder, twisted her round 
and drew her amongst a group of bystanders. 

“Keep out of his sight, Miss!” he muttered. 
“He’ll know you! Now, again—which man. That 
with the pale face and high hat ?—I see him—good 
to remember, too. All right! Stop here, you two— 
if he moves in this direction, Mr. Hetherwick, move 
away anywhere. Wait!” 

Robmore slipped away: a moment later they 
saw him speak to a couple of quiet-looking men 
who presently glanced at Baseverie. Hetherwick 
was watching Baseverie, too. Baseverie, quiet, 
unconcerned, evidently wholly unsuspicious, had 
taken up a poistion at the exit through which 
the Southampton passengers must emerge; he 



Waterloo 35 1 

was smoking a cigar, placidly, with obvious appre¬ 
ciation. 

“You’re certain that’s the man?” whispered 
Hetherwick. 

“Baseverie? Positive!” declared Rhona. “As if 
I could mistake him! I’ve too good reason to re¬ 
member his whole appearance. But—here! 
Daring!” 

“Well!” said Hetherwick. “Something’s going 
to happen! Keep back—keep well back—we can see 
things from here without being seen. If he caught 
sight of you-” 

Robmore came strolling back and joined them. 

“All right!” he murmured. “Four pairs of eyes, 
besides ours—that’s three pairs more!—on him. 
My men are close up to him, too. See ’em?—one, 
two, three, four!—all round him, though he doesn’t 
know. I shan’t let him go, whether Matherfield 
turns up or not. Cool customer, eh?” 

“The train’s due,” said Hetherwick. He had 
Rhona’s hand within his arm, and he felt it tremble. 
“Yes!” he whispered, bending down to her, “that’s 
how I feel! Tense moment, this. But that 
scoundrel, there-” 

Baseverie was glancing at the big clock. He 
turned from it to the platform behind the gates, 
looking expectantly along its lighted surface. The 




352 


Black Money 

others looked, too. A minute passed. Then, out of 
the gloom at the further extremity of the vast station, 
an engine appeared, slowly dragging its burden of 
carriages, and came sighing like a weary giant up the 
side of the platform. The passengers in the front 
compartments leapt out and began filing towards 
the exit. 

“Now for it!” muttered Robmore. “Keep 
back you two! My men’ll watch him—and 
whoever’s here to meet him. For he’s expecting 
somebody.” 

Nothing happened for the first minute. The 
crowd of discharged passengers, men and women, 
civilians, soldiers, sailors, filed out and went their 
ways. Gradually it thinned. Then Hetherwick’s 
arm was suddenly gripped by Rhona for the second 
time, and he saw that she was staring at something 
beyond the barrier. 

“There!” she exclaimed. “There—the man in the 
grey coat and fawn hat! That’s the man who drove 
the car! See!—Baseverie sees him!” 

Hetherwick looked and saw Baseverie lift a hand 
in recognition of a young, fresh-faced man who was 
nearing the ticket-collectors, and who carried in his 
right hand a small, square parcel. But he saw 
more—close behind this young man came Mather- 
field on one hand and Quigman on the other. They 


Waterloo 


353 


drew closer as he neared the gate, and on its other 
side the detectives drew closer to Beseverie. 

“Now then—” whispered Robmore, and stole 
swiftly forward. 

It was all over so swiftly that neither Hether- 
wick nor Rhona knew exactly how the thing was 
done. Before they had realised that the men were 
trapped, or the gaping bystanders had realised that 
something was happening under their very noses, 
Baseverie and his man were two safely handcuffed 
prisoners in the midst of a little group of silent men 
who were hurrying both away; within a moment, 
captors and captives were lost in the outer reaches 
of the station. Then the two watchers suddenly 
realised that Matherfield, holding the square par¬ 
cel in his hand, was standing close by, a grim but 
highly satisfied smile in his eyes. He held the parcel 
up before them. 

“Very neat, Mr. Hetherwick, very neat indeed!” 
he said. “Uncommonly neat—eh?” 

But Hetherwick knew that he was not referring 
to the parcel. 


THE END 


23 




The 

Sign of the Serpent 

By 

John Goodwin 

Do not begin The Sign of the Serpent 
unless you have time to see it through. 
It tells of a missing heir, a kidnapping, 
and a series of thrilling incidents on the 
sea-going yacht Windflower , Here are 
romance and adventure of the good old- 
fashioned kind,—not written for lovers of 
realism, but for those who still have a 
warm spot in their hearts for Treasure 
Island\ 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 




The Shining Road 

By 

Bernice Brown 

Tliis is the tale of a young boy who 
was “placed out” on an Iowa farm. 
Iowa may seem a prosaic background, 
but adventure is a thing of the spirit. 
Through all this boy’s youthful struggles, 
through his difficult progress to self¬ 
understanding runs the most vivid drama 
of all, the drama that is common to every 
life. His story is one in which each one 
of us can identify himself, and at the 
end we can stand with Stephen Douglas 
on the shining road to life. 


G. P. Putnam’s Sons 

New York London 





ALCATRAZ 


BY 

MAX BRAND 

Horses, a girl, guns, and an heroic 
puncher move through the pages of this 
story with delightful rapidity, overcoming 
a succession of convincing obstacles—and 
it only ends when the pretty lady finally 
lies with true romantic fervor in the 
proper pair of arms. This novel further 
enhances the author's reputation in the 
field of Western romances. It rings 
true ! 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 




NORTH 


BY 

JAMES B. HENDRYX 

A story of Alaska,—that it is by 
Hendryx stamps it as good. He has 
never failed to give an interesting 
plot; this one is both interesting and 
unusual, with the great Alaskan 
Sweepstakes, the famous dog-team 
race, as the exciting climax. 

You will like Burr MacShane and 
you will love Lou Gordon and her 
dogs. 


G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS 

NEW YORK LONDON 


LR3Ap'26 






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